


Engysis

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Aiónios [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ancient Greece AU, Bathing, Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Pederasty, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, historical events, intercrural, lots and lots and lots of dogs, mentions of violence (not between the mains), neuri customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is a silly negotiation, they have found themselves so often the past year together, touching close and sharing late, late evenings in conversation and carnal pleasure. There is little Will is not prepared to do at Hannibal's behest, and that which he is not willing, he has found both words and actions to hold his claims.</i>
</p><p>The second year that Hannibal and Will share together. Follows on directly after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2526059">Ero̱totropía</a>, and it helps a lot if you have read that one first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WendigoDreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoDreaming/gifts).



> Still working from [dweeby's](http://dweeby.tumblr.com/) amazing prompt that started Ero̱totropía and led to this certainly-not-a-one-shot series. Thank you, bb, it has been - and continues to be - a blast.
> 
> If you have a commission for us, [send it our way!](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/donate) Commissions are still open and going strong!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It is the first symposium they have been invited to as a pair, well-timed with near the anniversary of the first time he rode from the city with Will in tow, sulking silent and morose. The invitations Hannibal usually receives go dutifully responded to with thanks, and unindulged beyond that, but when told - as with many things - that Will must earn his outing among the men of good birth seeking to behave poorly, he mustered himself to the task. Rising before the sun each day, Will had tended to his chores and training with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from knowing a reward awaits._
> 
> _And Hannibal is - unfortunately, right now - nothing if not a man of his word._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again - so incredibly much - to [thellou](http://thellou.tumblr.com/) for your [commission](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/donate) and your support. We're so glad to be able to write even more of this series, even faster, thanks to you - and we hope you enjoy!!

“You must know how spoiled you are for me to be here,” Hannibal intones.

Regret has set in early this time, having not yet even dismounted his horse, though the stablehand remains waiting with hand outstretched to take her reins. The noise from inside is already a cacophony, laughter and shouting that does not bode well for a quiet evening of poetry and wine, philosophy and music.

Will’s horse snorts from behind them, shifting nervous on his hooves, and Hannibal sighs.

“Must we?” he asks the boy, and Will’s bright laughter is answer enough.

It is the first symposium they have been invited to as a pair, well-timed with near the anniversary of the first time he rode from the city with Will in tow, sulking silent and morose. The invitations Hannibal usually receives go dutifully responded to with thanks, and unindulged beyond that, but when told - as with many things - that Will must earn his outing among the men of good birth seeking to behave poorly, he mustered himself to the task. Rising before the sun each day, Will had tended to his chores and training with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from knowing a reward awaits.

And Hannibal is - unfortunately, right now - nothing if not a man of his word.

"What do you fear so, within?" Will asks, dismounting and allowing his horse to be taken, hoping it spurs Hannibal to follow suit. "Within are merely men who think themselves wise."

“There is a difference between fear, of which I feel none, and disdain, of which I feel a great deal.”

Will stands at Hannibal's side as they wait, he will not lead their way inside despite his thrumming excitement to go. To be able to talk with other educated men, to see them and hear their words, to lie alongside Hannibal on the kline and feel his hands protective and possessive against him...

"As I have earned my way here, perhaps you can earn something by letting us go," Will grins, mischievous and young, "just for several hours. I will repay them all in kind when we return home."

"In kind?"

Will grins, "Two-fold."

It is a silly negotiation, they have found themselves so often the past year together, touching close and sharing late, late evenings in conversation and carnal pleasure. There is little Will is not prepared to do at Hannibal's behest, and that which he is not willing, he has found both words and actions to hold his claims.

Hannibal sighs, long and pained, and slides from his horse, handing her reins to the boy who takes her towards the stables.

“Might we not simply skip to that?” he answers, lips thinning in a moment more of indulgent grumpiness before forcing his expression to ease. “Come then.”

With a passing squeeze to Will’s backside, Hannibal steps ahead of him into the house, adjusting his tunic as he goes. They are gregariously greeted by a slave and taken towards the andrōn. Flutes and strings, laughter and loud voices carry from it, many of the couches lining the walls already occupied by men of note, and more men still circulate the room with wine in hand. There is food on platters, boys with pitchers, and more than a few hetairai in expensive fabrics, wrapped around the arms of the men with whom they are consorting. Hannibal’s attention lingers on them in appreciation for a moment more - they are a far cry from the pornai of the brothels - but he settles a hand against the small of Will’s back and ushers him forward.

“Wine,” he requests, simply, but wraps his fingers in the cord around Will’s waist to reel him back when he starts to depart. “And remember your position here. Though you come bearing a name, you have not yet earned it, and there is little detested more among men of this kind than the perception of pretension.”

Will smiles, though It is nothing like his grin that Hannibal has grown to love and long for. This is a demure thing, with Will’s head ducked and his hair against his face. In a moment, he has gone from the confident, frivolous creature to an eromenos.

Hannibal is not wont to let him go, but does. Watching Will make his way through the room with straight shoulders and a self-sufficient sort of pride that is enviable, that is noticed. Here is a boy to be revered, or believes himself worthy of such.

He is beautiful. 

Hannibal already aches for the quiet of their chambers, for the hours here to be but a memory, but an experience that he wants Will to have, and remember, but never ask this to repeat.

He watches the boy gather a heavy ocher pitcher, pushing up just barely on his toes to lengthen the young cord of his muscles, deliberate, for Hannibal alone to see and know he can run his lips over that skin later, hold against it with rough hands as Will squeezes his thighs tight, bent over In bed.

It is already too much distance, though the distress it causes Hannibal is cause for distress in itself. He allows his gaze to linger a moment more, as though by look alone he could unsettle the boy’s chiton and ride it up over his hips, before forcing himself to turn away and make pleasantries with the host and his accomplices.

A celebration for some achievement or another, Hannibal hardly cares but nods and listens attentively enough to parrot back pleasantries towards the men.

“I did not expect to see you,” the host chirps, finally, eyes dancing amusement. “The illustrious general Hannibal, who fears no battlefield but avoids the nearness of a nearly Elysian one. Are you quite certain you’re not from Sparta?”

Hannibal allows a smile at this. “I should hope not,” he indulges. “I enjoy my wine and women far too much for that.”

“I do see you’ve found other interests besides,” the man responds, brow lifting, and Hannibal regards Will upon his approach.

“One must undertake as many interests as they are able to support,” he quips, to the man’s delighted laughter. “My _eromenos_. There is something to be said for having someone to bear one’s cups.”

"And to confide one's troubles to at the end of arduous days."

Will merely lifts his eyes enough to take the man in, before moving to stand close enough to Hannibal to be clear how their relationship stands. More for Hannibal’s sake, here, than Will’s. Will would not have been invited to a home like this, to such a gathering, without a mentor. At seventeen he has earned nothing but small scars in training, bruises working with the horses.

In society he is but a boy.

The host regards Will carefully, appreciative, debating the consequences of asking to see the boy better. It would lead to nothing but a casual touch, the boy belonged to another, but those eyes...

"Perhaps you will start attending symposia more," the host says, smiling, pleased. "Such interests coincide with others."

Hannibal lifts a hand when his cup is filled enough, and Will holds the pitcher again, close to his chest. “He would certainly prefer it to hard work,” Hannibal remarks, before adding, genially, “but who would not, considering the company?”

He receives a clap on the arm and a laugh for his politeness, and adjusts his himation enough to ensure he is covered. Stifling a smile down to as small as he can, Will delights in the knowledge of what Hannibal keeps beneath his robes, the ink and scars that would render him a curiosity beyond how the men here already regard him. He grins a little, to himself, at the thought of their shared secret, and how soon he will be able to run his fingertips across those darkened lines, his tongue to follow.

Niceties bestowed, Hannibal sights a kline yet empty, a welcome thing after riding so long. They are stopped, time and again, to exchange further pleasantries, and Hannibal balances his politeness with a sharp wit, just crude enough beneath the surface as to appear a part of the entire Dionysian affair rather than merely tolerating it.

“In truth,” he murmurs to Will, hand against his back as they circulate towards a couch, “these are children’s parties compared to our celebrations. You Greeks think yourselves decadent - and you are, to a point - but there is not a woman of my own tribe that could not drink the bawdiest Greek man under the table.”

Will grins and quickly soothes his smile to something more appropriate.

“You tease me with such mischief,” Will murmurs, slowing his step just to feel Hannibal’s hand against him a little harder. “And never once give me the chance to partake. You are _cruel_ , erastes.”

The words are received with another gentle squeeze of fingers before Will is released, but he does not stray far. He settles on the kline once Hannibal has, for the moment sitting as the man reclines, allowing the soft touches to his sides and back as Hannibal drinks his wine and they both allow the atmosphere to slowly settle them into it.

Will can feel the tension of Hannibal behind him, knows that despite his clever words and graceful carriage, he does not want to be here, does not want to partake in the conversation and judgement of his fellow Greeks - if he considers them that. Will has seen the man more closely embrace his brothers from war, than men of his equivalent status outside of the battlefield.

Hannibal considers the words, teasing though they are, and brings a hand around the boy to rest against his leg. “Do you wish to partake?” he asks, amused. “I will not stop you, unless you need to be stopped.”

A seemingly unintentional movement - though no movements are with Hannibal, the boy knows - brings Hannibal’s thumb to brush against the boy’s thigh.

“It is your excitement that brings us here,” Hannibal reminds him. “What did you anticipate? There is music, a poet there beside the krater. Wine if you wish it, food if you are partaking in wine, as you will be riding home after this,” he adds, rueful. “Perhaps you wish to entertain the hetaerai,” he teases, “or discover new ways to share your thighs with me from one of the other boys.”

This last is said on a murmur, as he catches Will’s hand and brings it to his lips. A gentle show of affection, far more restrained than many happening around them. “We have several kraters more before the songs and fights begin and I am free to escape unnoticed. I am told there will be a contest of rhetoric soon,” he muses. “Perhaps you will partake in that, peacemaker.”

Will grins, delighted in the selection of vices and pleasures that await him, all listed and allowed by the man enjoying his wine behind him. Will is careful to refill his cup again before setting aside the pitcher and shifting to take in the room fully again.

“I shall talk to everyone,” Will decides, childish, youthful pleasure in such unrealistic goals. “Make you proud with my wit, discussing philosophy with the older men, delight you with my learnings from the other boys. Find a common tongue with the beautiful women,” Will laughs, turning to regard Hannibal, “somehow.”

In truth, he wishes to experience this as it comes, take all conversation, drink wine and allow himself to eat the beautiful array of food before them. The youthful excitement of being allowed to partake in something he has only read about, dreamed about, been told about, overtakes him almost entirely. Another gentle touch against him has Will sitting back against Hannibal more, turning his body to allow himself to lie beside him, remembering Hannibal’s words, months and months ago, claiming he would need to learn to lie beside Hannibal properly before he would be taken here.

He certainly has learned.

He finds, though, deliberately perhaps, that as he lays he is not permitted to adjust how his tunic folds, shifting so the fabric rides up just enough to keep him covered, but not enough to be decent. Where he lies, no one can see, but he can surely feel; the tunic hem just barely brushing the tops of his thighs, Hannibal’s heat and girth beneath his own clothes pressed up against him.

Will makes no motion of discomfort, merely checks that at the front, where he is seen, he will not shame his mentor.

“Tell me how I can entertain you,” he murmurs, turning his head a little, eyes down and smile deliberately muted, “to make the hours you so dread here pass quickly?”

The musicians begin to play again, organized now rather than wandering separate with their instruments, and the youths draw Hannibal’s attention for a moment before he returns it to the one pressed so close against him. He rests a hand against Will’s belly, a precarious place that tempts him to hike the boy’s tunic up even higher, but merely lets the threat remain for now.

“I can think of many ways to enjoy your company that would be a more worthwhile use of time than such organized indulgence,” he murmurs into Will’s hair. “How you might entertain me in our bed is a long enough list, but I do not require even that. Seeing you attempt to handle your pack has provided a great deal of entertainment. Truly, I would watch you muck the stalls now and find it preferable,” he grins, laying kisses against the boy’s head, the back of his neck, his bare shoulder, sighing as Will shivers and leans entirely back against him.

A shift forward brings his waking hardness against the boy’s backside, and it earns a whistle of approval from one of the klines near them. Hannibal’s eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and he whispers against Will’s ear.

“I would take pleasure from merely watching you. The slip of fabric against your legs, the wine in your cheeks. And to know that you will return to me when the scent of illness overtakes the scent of incense and we take our leave.” He lets his lips linger against Will’s shoulder for a moment more, intoxicated by the boy’s sweetness and enthusiasm rocking unbalanced in him.

“Go,” he chides the boy finally, with a soft slap to his leg. “Enjoy yourself, and remember your place. I will make acquaintance as I must.”

Will hums, deliberately draws himself in a long line against Hannibal before sliding his feet to the floor and carefully adjusting himself before standing properly. He allows his head to be turned gently in Hannibal’s hand and closes his eyes when he feel the soft caress over his lips instead of a kiss there.

“You need more wine,” he says softly, opens his eyes at the hum of approval, and steps back to gather the pitcher and go.

Around them, the atmosphere is one of friendly rapport, though there is a tension humming beneath, a strange need for fulfilment, desires that run rampant in places they shouldn’t go. Will feels eyes on him wherever he steps, finds his shoulders straightening as he keeps his eyes down. A boy, here, not yet earned his name. Here he belongs because he is a belonging, and he finds that the challenge to overcome that assumption brings a smile to his face and speeds his heart.

The hetaerai look upon Will as what he is: a boy. Will finds their expressions ones of amusement without malice, seeing a sweet thing that seeks for more and has not yet earned it. He finds that conversations with the women are lingering and clever, but they leave the meeting the victor. Will can feel his cheeks dark from regarding their beauty, from hearing their soft voices speak such witty things that leave his own to pale in comparison.

Other boys approach Will and they speak freely, most older than him, some by only a few years. All seem contented with their situations, none look fearful or unhappy to be here, though very few of them seem to wish to partake in active discussion as Will is.

“They will take your ideas and listen,” one boy tells him, filling his own pitcher with wine. He has light hair and bright eyes and a delicate jaw that is almost feminine. “But they will not give them the weight they deserve. Do not be offended. Once we are men we will not listen to the thoughts of boys either.”

“No,” Will agrees, a slight smile at the thought. “Certainly not. Who is yours?”

“The fat one nearly asleep already,” the boy answers, nodding once. Will follows the movement and sees the man, enormous, laughing richly at the antics of a dancer nearby.

“He seems,” considers Will, “in good spirits.”

“And deep in them,” the other boy remarks with a snort. “Luckily he’s far too large to avail himself on me, most nights. But he takes me to gymnasium, often, to watch me run and swim. Training to be an athlete,” he adds, pleased. “Who is yours?”

“There,” gestures Will, towards where Hannibal stands, now, conversing with a pair of men. The other boy at the krater raises a brow, adjusting the hold on his now-full pitcher.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

The boy shrugs a shoulder, seemingly disinclined to say more, until he meets Will’s expectant gaze. “I think my father would have killed an outsider who tried to court me, and he’d never have let it actually _happen_.”

Despite the words tasting so familiar, not a year before on Will’s own lips, he finds them poisonous now, feels himself tense with want for a settlement of such a misunderstanding. But it would be unseemly to exchange blows with another boy, worse, still, here. Instead, Will allows himself the gentle amusement in knowing that he could have, indeed, had a fat general as his mentor, but instead has a man of means and power and genuine strength in all forms of it.

“He is a great hero of Marathon,” Will says at length. “My father sponsored him in his youth, holds few men in as high regard as the general.”

The boy nods, allows a small smile to pass his lips in understanding. Will can feel the affection the young man has for his own master, despite his obvious - and most likely also hidden - vices. An understanding reached, the two part ways, and Will finds himself seeking Hannibal’s attention merely by standing in his line of sight to receive it.

He can feel the heat of gazes on him, both curious and hungry, interested and depraved, and finds himself willing to allow them, as he watches Hannibal leave his current dialog to start another, face gentling, smile warming as he regards the woman before him now.

There is a moment where Will’s envy chokes him, draws color to his cheeks and tension to his shoulders. He has seen Hannibal’s gentleness with the fairer sex many times, in their home, with the slaves, on the marketplace and on the streets. He is genuinely enthralled by women, delighting in their slight forms and soft voices, he is a lover of them without needing to formally be. He knows how that smile feels against his lips, how that gaze does against his skin.

Will turns to catch the eyes of several men watching, and deliberately meets them all before ducking his head, demure. A permission to approach, were they interested, a reminder of his place if they were merely content to look. The pitcher is heavy in his hands and Will adjusts how his fingers hold it.

The beckoning - wine and bare skin, undrank and untouched - is quickly noticed by men of the party. Will appears much as the other boys hired for the evening, to pour and to entertain by whatever means are preferred, and though those who saw him enter with Hannibal glance towards the general first - who does not seem to notice - those who did not observe the beautiful boy with pleasure.

It has hardly been a minute before a man reclined across a couch signals the boy closer and lifts his cup in want for wine and company. Will looks away without lowering his chin, fiercely proud and sweetly shy all at once, and hears Hannibal laugh, lightly, at something the hetaera has said.

Will’s eyes narrow, and he takes long strides to carry himself towards the kline, hips shifting.

“More wine?” he offers, and he knows it’s beneath his station - even just as a boy - to serve a stranger like this, but before the thought can get any further he spares another glance towards Hannibal.

The man has stepped nearer her now, and she has not stepped away. Hannibal studies the promising curls that hang loose against her neck, the tilt of her head and the wit of her words, a rapturous company compared to most everyone else here. She is striking, dark hair and darker eyes, cleverer than Hannibal himself, the man wagers, and he suddenly understands why the life they lead is so differently regarded than that of the common prostitutes in the city.

She is nothing like them, and well aware of it.

Will watches, as she motions to her collarbones, and Hannibal glances down towards his own. His tunic has slipped, between lying and standing and sitting and standing again, and he considers her for a moment, eyes narrowed almost playfully, before he winds the fabric gently aside to reveal the horse inked black and twisting along his shoulder. Her fingers press against the mark, tracing the ridges of it that Will can nearly feel beneath his own fingers in watching.

And Hannibal allows it with little more than an easy smile.

A touch to his wrist has Will turning quickly back, eyes wide and lips parted still in surprise, before he lowers his eyes and pours the wine. It is the first time he has seen Hannibal so openly content to show his markings, in public or even to his closest friends. It sends a strange cold through Will’s body that he channels instead into a coy tilt of his hips when he has poured the wine.

“Lay with me,” the man offers, dark eyes on Will as he brings the cup to his lips and takes a sip. Will finds his lips quirking in a shy smile before he shakes his head.

“I am spoken for, sir, I cannot.” 

The response is somewhat mildly dismayed, yet entirely curious. The man’s gaze lingers on Will until the boy lifts his eyes again and meets it. Something about the look is calculating, a darkness Will has not seen in Hannibal often that he knows is innate in this man, a level of anger and cruelty that would show only in the darkest of rooms in the quietest part of the night. Will smiles, the man blinks and returns it.

“Only an unwise man would let such a boy wander, eyes away and preoccupied with another.”

Will finds a strange confidence in defending Hannibal, a validation for himself and his master both when he replies, “And wise men trust their charges to behave politely and return to them. He does not tether me, and I come on my own.”

The words are accepted, scrutinized, and the man smiles a wide, toothy grin before taking another long drink of his wine and holding out his cup for Will to fill for him once more.

“Brave boy, entering such discussions without your mentor.”

“He has taught me bravery well,” Will agrees, inclining his head again. He can feel that the man is impressed, almost disappointed that once their exchange is over Will is going to return to his mentor - whoever he is - and sit alongside him, lie against him and allow the man to touch.

Without losing focus on the woman whose hand lingers perhaps a little too long against the folds of Hannibal’s tunic, the body language of Will’s conversation with the man is not lost on him. The offer and withdrawal, the proud jut of the boy’s chin, just enough to express certainty and not so much as to appear boastful. It’s enough for Hannibal to gather the theme of their conversation, and to sigh when the boy steps away with long strides to ply his wine and wiles elsewhere.

Hannibal can feel the muscles beneath his eyes draw a little tighter, but simply returns a smile to his temporary companion.

“And this?” Hannibal teases gently, reaching to curl one of her long curls around his finger. “No less deliberate than the marks I wear. Intended to convey a particular message, a fairer rattling of sword against shield.”

Her laugh is brash, beautiful, and she tosses her head to tug free the strand. “And no less dangerous, some might say. I like to give my companions an idea of what I’ll look like several hours and beds removed from now,” she grins.

“So that they’ll know what they’re missing when you don’t deign to bed them?”

Her smile widens as she extends her cup. “I would think a man of your repute would understand the value of choosing one’s battles.”

Nearer Hannibal steps at the mild challenge, and no further back does she move as they stand nearly toe to toe. “Is it such a war for you? I would have assumed your compensation and comforts to put you far above the station of a mere warrior.”

“Ah,” she laughs again. “You put yourself beneath hetaerai then, general?”

“As often as possible.”

Hannibal is unsurprised when Will’s meandering brings him to her outstretched cup, and he fills it without lifting his eyes towards Hannibal, but with his entire attention focused on him. A slight smile appears, and Hannibal reaches to bring the boy closer to him by the arm.

“You have a roundabout way of fetching wine,” he notes.

Will allows himself to lean against Hannibal but does not give him much more attention than that, aloof and untouchable here.

“I was enjoying myself, as you suggested,” he replies, cradling the pitcher against his chest, enough still for a cup with all the rounds he has made. “The conversation and the possibilities,” he adds, obediently tilting the pitcher to pour for Hannibal when he offers his cup, finally, as well. “Being taught my place, so I remember.”

The woman looks upon Will with narrow-eyed amusement, knowing that, in essence, Hannibal’s choice of company would be entirely his own, not at all hindered or adjusted to suit the boy at his side and yet there is a deep affection there, between the two of them. Will holds the base of the pitcher carefully with both hands, chin up and proud, eyes down and demure. A juxtaposition of boy and man, owned and owner.

The wine has loosened Hannibal’s tensions, enough, less staid and distanced than when they arrived. He removes the pitcher from the boy’s hands to set it on the floor beside and slips an arm around his middle in its place.

“Berenike,” Hannibal says, “this is Will. A warrior in the making, have I any say in it. Will, Berenike, ferocious as any I have encountered.”

She inclines her head to Will and her smile widens. “I will quake and tremble in anticipation of his skills. One can only imagine the things you’re teaching him.”

“Will you?” laughs Hannibal.

“Imagine them?” she responds, brow lifting. “It will most certainly keep me up at night.”

“A clever woman,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s hair, just loud enough that she can hear them, “is the wiliest opponent you will ever face. Unpredictable patterns and unwieldy temperaments, and this one a mind to use them.”

“I shall have to hone my skills,” Will replies, just as quiet, though he lets his eyes raise to regard Berenike as he speaks, “and temper my mind to be able to face such a woman.”

She smiles, eyes narrowed at the boy playing at being a man and yet not so much as to be truly a farce. Something in that mind, that carriage, does suggest maturity, the mischief overruns it, however, enough to be amusing.

“Hannibal, you should be careful what you teach the beautiful boy, he may outwit you if given the chance.” She smiles a little wider, directs her eyes to Hannibal again. “Not shown his place.”

It is said in jest, not a rebuff, not a dismissal. Will knows well enough his place here, his place in society until he comes of age, until he completes his training with Hannibal and even then, earns his place beyond that.

Hannibal can feel how stiff Will stands against him, arms at his sides rather than over Hannibal’s own, and he sighs, releasing him.

“Though I lack your wisdom of observation, I believe he’s going to show me mine,” Hannibal snorts, a quiet amusement and a swat to Will’s backside to shoo him. “Go and fetch the horses, you’ve no need to stay until this becomes less a pretense towards culture and more a devotional to Dionysus.”

The surprise on Will’s face, displeasure burning bright in his cheeks, does little to quell Hannibal’s pleasure, and less still to stop him suggesting to Berenike, “A quiet weekend in the country, perhaps. You would look beautiful set against the olive groves.”

“Do I not now?”

“I have not said that,” amends Hannibal. “Merely that Athens does you little justice, in vying her looks against your own.”

“And I would return to her smelling of horses,” she laughs. “To what end, general, would you have me?”

“A dangerous question,” he muses, but takes the higher road. “Perhaps to share with the boy your wisdom and way with words. Your wit far exceeds the vaunted poets of this place.”

Berenike clucks her tongue in good-natured warning. “A flattery too far renders them all meaningless,” she answers, with a shrug and a smile. “I’ll think on it.”

“Let it keep you up at night,” he answers with a grin, before making his way after the stroppy boy who has started to part the crowd ahead of him.

Will says nothing to the slave as he gets the horses, takes his time to greet both with soft words, touch their faces, be welcomed again. When Hannibal joins him, Will merely passes him the reins before mounting his own horse and turning him towards the main road of the city. He keeps the pace just a little too quick to allow for comfortable conversation, allows himself to enjoy the night as it falls around them.

Upon their return, Will is dismissed from tending the horses, Hannibal in high spirits to take on the task and more than happy to. A soft touch to Will’s face, lifting his chin to meet his eyes, and a promise to not take longer than grooming their mounts before returning to the house.

Will seems just as content to leave Hannibal to his work, and makes his way to the back of the property towards the kennels instead. A cacophony of barking, echoing through the structure, through the fields beyond, before Will manages to subdue his pack of animals he has studiously and miraculously been able to keep.

Hannibal listens, shakes his head in bemusement at Will’s determination to collect and train his hounds, disbelief at the fact that he has allowed the boy them, despite his promises not to. Ten dogs, now, in the household, and seven will be bigger, when grown, than their mother, Hannibal shudders to think.

It is well into the night when the horses are stabled, brushed sleek and given a bucket of oats, each, for their troubles. Hannibal rests his forehead against that of his mare, a hand resting on her soft nose, until she ducks her head in impatience to eat and he laughs, letting her have at it.

“The women in my life,” he muses, no less pleased for her stubbornness, before winding his way back up towards the house. He sheds his himation on the way, allows his skin to breathe in the cool darkness, unburdened by even the light wool that hangs from him. By the time he is there, he is down to merely his chiton, and folds his garments in his room before digging up another bottle of wine, and padding back through the house.

“Will,” he intones at the doorway, hesitating for only a moment before cracking the door open, and stilling in his steps.

For a moment, he wonders if perhaps the boy is not of his own tribe, and has transformed himself into a wolf. But they are not wolves, piled before Hannibal, they are hounds, a year old and already of substantial enough size as to dwarf most ordinary dogs. All seven are curled or stretched, twitching in their sleep, around the boy who lays coiled in the center of them.

For a brief moment, the boy does not move, then he lifts his head, curls messy and falling to his eyes before he draws his fingers through it to swipe it from his face. Will blinks just once, already sleepy.

“Hannibal,” he replies, the dog closest to Will, on his back, twitches a leg enough to almost displace Will into another before the boy catches himself. “I had thought you in bed with your thoughts.”

Hannibal raises a brow, meeting the eyes of one of the dogs whose name he cannot recall. Jumper or Blackie or something - it hardly matters with seven of them. “I may well be,” he finally answers. “There is little room for acting on them, it seems.”

Will hums, settles in against his pack again, eyes barely open, neck bared where he rests his head back against one of the dog’s sides.

“There would be, with her in Athens and you smelling of horses.” Will’s lips twitch but it isn’t a smile, something softer, almost sad there, but he says nothing more.

“Will you let the thoughts keep you up long?” he asks at length.

A laugh, suddenly tired, breaks the tension that snapped Hannibal’s jaw tight at the words, and the man rubs a hand against his eyes.

“Had I known that it were my only option here, I might have stayed in Athens,” he sighs, dropping his hand. “But I did not, and so I have little but thoughts of you and wine to warm my bed.”

There is no invitation in his words, allowing the boy the space he has made for himself in the huddle of hounds. He looks on them a moment more, and turns to close the door behind himself, cursing symposium beneath his breath.

His bed appears suddenly too spacious, when before it had seemed so welcome, but it doesn’t stop him from shutting the door to his bedroom in kind and retiring, bottle quickly forgotten beside him.

It is hours later, the coldest part of night, when silent feet barely stick to the cold stone floor and Hannibal’s door is opened on quiet hinges, closed again.

Will knows the layout of the room by memory, can navigate it with his eyes closed without incident, and counts the six steps necessary to reach the bed and climb into it, nuzzling up between Hannibal’s shoulders with a sigh. He feels the hum more than hears it, and obediently shifts back enough for Hannibal to turn, to wrap hot, sleep-heavy arms around Will and hold him close.

“You smell of dog,” he rumbles, and Will feels his lips quirk in amusement, tilting his head to press warm lips to Hannibal’s neck.

“And you of horse, what of it?” he responds.

Hannibal makes an agreeable sound and rests his chin on Will’s head, and rubs long lines up and down the boy’s back, still warm from where he was nestled between all his animals.

“Are you still green over her?” he asks, unable to keep a little amusement from the drowsy weight of his voice.

“You can wash me of it in the morning,” Will mumbles, hand splaying against Hannibal’s chest before curling, soft, gentle there instead.

“Or,” Hannibal suggests, “I might kiss it from you now. Will you allow it?” He presses a finger beneath Will’s chin to bring their eyes to meet, offering a tired smile. “It would be a shame for the most extraordinary boy of the symposium to sleep unsullied by even that.”

“‘A flattery too far renders them all meaningless’,” Will muses, biting his lip softly before leaning in to kiss Hannibal gently, and again, a forgiveness and an apology both. “I will allow it if we may sleep in in the morning.”

Will smiles, keeps his chin up as it’s held and blinks. “Symposium is more exhausting than I had anticipated it to be.”

“And this the most pleasant one to which I’ve been,” Hannibal sighs, another kiss taken from Will’s lips still sweet with wine. “But I would go again, if you wished it,” he decides, before settling deeply into the bed, into the boy, and sliding a leg around his. “A good experience for you, and a good excuse for me to watch you in your wiles.”

“But,” Hannibal adds, “I cannot promise that I will not wake you in the morning.” A pause, and he breathes a laugh. “And we may sleep again after that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He is a general, he reminds himself. He is a general whose orders are heeded without pause, without question, by citizens and soldiers alike._
> 
> _And now he is a general who has been stopped, in his own home, by a band of miscreants who hold no regard for his station, or his words._
> 
> _Hannibal sighs._
> 
> Perhaps one of our favourite chapters in the entire series. In short: dogs. Lots and lots of dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... remember [this](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/post/102999730205/hmmm-hannibals-opinion-on-dogs-on-seven-dogs)?

“Move.”

Hannibal’s lips purse when his command goes entirely unheeded.

“Move, please,” he tries instead.

Still little more than a shuffling comes in response, a lazy back and forth that accomplishes little. He is a general, he reminds himself. He is a general whose orders are heeded without pause, without question, by citizens and soldiers alike.

And now he is a general who has been stopped, in his own home, by a band of miscreants who hold no regard for his station, or his words.

He sighs.

“Will,” Hannibal calls out, a sharper tone than intended, and at least this earns some answer from the hounds piled into the hallway, tails thumping wildly against each other and the walls.

Will does not linger to annoy Hannibal, but an untied sandal would cause him an undue amount of grief were he to stumble on it later. When he does emerge from his chambers, he smiles, soft, directed at his pack, adoring, directed at his mentor.

A sharp whistle is all it takes for the dogs to stand, tails still flailing, some bouncing up on back legs in excitement.

"Shall I run them ragged?" Will asks, stepping closer, smile amused and only slightly mischievous. "Get them out of your hair?"

"Out of my house will be preferable."

Will's smile widens, and without a word more, he steps closer still to be greeted, gentle nuzzling before the kiss, Hannibal’s hand much more confident in seeking between Will's legs and not just against his thigh. Will makes a sound, pleased and warm, and pulls from the kiss flushed.

"You know they cannot share the kennels now," Will reminds Hannibal softly. "Once grown they are no longer her pups but her competition. She will hurt them in there, and as she and your others were first here, they are entitled to the kennels. Mine have my chambers. You allowed It."

"When they do not make the rest of the house uninhabitable."

Will smiles again, brings a hand to Hannibal’s cheek to soothe him, apologize.

"I will run them,” he promises, "and return with exhausted dogs and ready boy, for lessons."

Another whistle, a sharp point towards the kitchen and the back door, and all the hounds nearly fall over each other running there, loud barks and enthusiastic whining from all but one of them.

Hannibal remains, a moment more, to watch Will surrounded by his own troops, now, barreling with childish laughter out into the long summer grasses, already warm despite it being so early still. A glance, downward, and a hum towards the dog that remains, malingering.

“Lazy,” he murmurs. “Go with your kin. Your boy.”

The pup’s tail thumps softly against Hannibal’s foot, and he lifts it to prod the dog’s haunches with his toes, to no effect but a plaintive whine.

“How will you learn to catch deer if you spend all day inside?” Hannibal asks it, crouching to meet the big dark eyes that turn up towards him. “You are like him, you know. Or how he once was. Afraid of his own shadow, wont to spend his days inside lounging with food and reading.”

He rubs a hand beneath the dog’s chin, sees the white mark that runs down his throat, and leans close enough to accept a cold nose against his skin and a warm tongue, tail thumping harder.

“ _Snow_ ,” Will had declared. “ _Because it looks like there’s some snow on him_.”

Looking up from his plate, Hannibal studied him with a snort. “When have you ever seen snow, boy?”

“I have read,” Will responded, almost haughty, before taking up his cup of milk to drink. There is a smugness there he doesn’t even try to hide. Snow is the fourth puppy Will had earned, on top of the two he had been given. He knows, just as Hannibal does, that the last will be earned just the same, and within the week, as well, before Hannibal considers the dog the right age to sell or trade away.

“He’s not a hunter,” Will says, reaching for another piece of bread to break it and soak up the olive oil on his plate. “He is too passive. A tracker, a dog of endurance. Snow will be the dog that rides to war with me. I will be just like the man your brothers spoke of. Only, I do hope, less cowardly and incompetent.”

A small smile from Hannibal at that, and Will had shifted to sit more comfortably, head down as he finished his dinner, before their evening lessons began.

Now, the dog still sits, determined, it seems, to make itself comfortable in Hannibal’s space, and Hannibal in his own.

“Go.” A hand against the rough muzzle and a gentle shake before Hannibal stands, and Snow lopes off after the rest of them, down at the beach, now, with the speed that Will takes them.

Waving away the slaves, Hannibal makes breakfast for himself, a rare indulgence afforded by the boy’s absence and the lack of a messenger that morning - every day, a relief that there is no more news. Oat cakes, with fresh goat’s cheese and honey, and black berries full to bursting scattered across the top. He murmurs a thanks to his attendant for them, knowing her quiet pleasure and the freedom that comes with seeking them out, a gentle squeeze to her wrist as he passes by to eat in blessed silence.

In the distance, he can hear the dogs, big enough already that their voices carry, helped along by the wind. Though the man will to his grave deny that he intended Will to keep them, he knew from the first wide-eyed delight the boy took at feeling them shift in their mother’s belly that at least some would be staying.

He had not imagined that Will would work, wriggle, and whine his way into keeping all seven of the hulking, shaggy things. Nor had he imagined that, on one such day, he would discover his panoply missing.

“ _Thieves_ ,” the man declared to the assembled slaves, hands flexing in need for a sword or spear to still them. “ _How they made it into the house, and out again, carrying a full suit of bronze, with no notice from anyone -_ ”

There is silence, some of the slaves scared to even look up, a few hiding smiles. Hannibal’s assistant says nothing, even when he directs his dark eyes to her for an explanation. Eventually, she relents, knowing her place despite the leniencies given her, for her cleverness and her ability to run his household.

“Perhaps the general is envisioning a war where there is but a skirmish,” Asherah says gently. “The bronze has been carried from your chambers, but not from your home.”

Such insolence would be punished brutally in any other home, by any other man, but she stands her ground, waits for Hannibal to understand, to _listen_ despite his anger. It is moments later that he dismisses everyone with a wave of his hand, pressing it to his eyes after with a long sigh and a curse.

The panoply is not in his chambers, it is not within Will’s. A rare day where he has allowed the boy the morning to himself, after weeks of working him to collapse to see if he would continue in his blind determination to earn all of the pups in that litter. A moment, then, when Hannibal considers a possibility and makes his way with long strides to the kennels, open wide at this time of the day, to allow the dogs to roam and run on their own, though the pups remain enclosed indoors, near their mother. Sectioned, now, with three pups that Will has earned, and the other four curled by themselves in the soft straw.

He finds Will at the back of the structure, legs curled beneath him, his chosen pups around him nuzzling sleepily against his legs and into his hands when he pets them. Across his knees lies the cuirass, a cloth quick against it as Will polishes it clean, tries to return it to the majesty it once possessed before it had seen war. On the low bench, lies the helmet, carefully resting, already cleaned.

It takes a moment for Hannibal to realize that there are not three pups near Will but four, the last determinedly pressing his warm wet tongue against the corner of the armor, licking it clean as carefully as Will is with his cloth, and the boy looks delighted. Will looks up when Hannibal nears and his grin is so bright Hannibal has to hold his breath.

“This is a treasure hunting dog, Hannibal, we must keep him!” he laughs, the tawny pup pressing both paws to the cuirass now to hold it still as he licks. “He’d tried to make off with it, you should have seen. When I was cleaning the helmet. I watched him drag it to the doorway, like a tortoise too small for its shell before I brought it back.”

Hannibal sighs, relief and consternation all at once, and studies the lot of them - puppies, all - before coming nearer to the boy and finding a place beside him. He leans, drawing his nose against Will’s hair and breathing him in, before huffing a laugh against him, almost as though he were one of the horses.

“A treasure hunter is but a robber, to the one whose treasure has been taken,” Hannibal murmurs, studying the armor laid heavy across Will’s bare legs. Four dogs, in addition to his own, is not so many - so he had thought at the time, knowing despite his own self-assurance that it was only the beginning of the boy’s scheming.

“There,” he tells Will, motioning to a bend in the armor still untouched, before resting his chin against Will’s head. “What have you named this one?”

“Blackie,” grins the boy.

“It is not black.”

“No, he’s tawny-colored,” agrees Will, scrubbing harder at the spot Hannibal had indicated. “But his brother is.”

“Which is that?”

Will bites his lip and sits higher, to see the pups still curled against their patient mother, and points. “The black one, there. He’s called Tawny.”

“You have named it -”

“Yes,” Will laughed, and Hannibal had kissed the boyish pleasure from his lips before he could misname any more of the dogs in his delight.

The barking grows louder, now, and Hannibal looks up to see Will leading his pack back over the rise, through the thick grass. Back from the beach and - by the look of all of them - having played in the water while there. The dogs circle Will with abandon, always getting out of his way before he can trip on them, frolicking like the pups they still are around the boy who is just as puppyish, currently red-faced from exertion, smile bright and hair a mess.

Every single one of those pups, earned, with sweat in the training ring, bruises and scrapes, with recitations and beautiful lips around runes and the sounds and meanings within. Every single one of those beasts now roaming Hannibal’s property has been won as brutally as any land in battle.

He remembers trying to take the last pup away, ready to be sold or bartered at market, and how hard Will had clung to him, how ardently he had begged, had presented his argument in both of their now-commonly used languages at home.

 _”He is the last, Hannibal, you cannot take him from his family, from me!”_ Will’s eyes had been bright, then, almost wet from frustrated tears that he didn’t let fall. _”I will earn him, at any cost, I will, within the week, allow me the week, Hannibal, please!”_

“You have six already,” Hannibal reminds him, cradling the dog in his arm. “Six, Will. And Asherah is going to market today.”

The boy does not move from in front of him, blocking the door to the kennel with his arms outstretched. It does little to ease him when the pup yawns wide and lets out a piteous whine, nuzzling into the crook of Hannibal’s elbow.

“He will fetch a good price, Will. He is from reliable stock and there is a great want for these hounds. They are uncommon here.”

They regard each other, Will’s breath shortened in his distress, and Hannibal shakes his head. He will not argue with a boy, not more than he has already, and he sweeps Will gently aside with his free arm to pass him by, insisting again, “You have _six_.”

“He knows every command!” Will tries again, eyes wide, desperate, keeping pace with Hannibal as he walks. “Every one. I taught them all and he was the fastest to learn. Hannibal, please, please let him earn his place here, if I cannot do it for him. Please. Tell me what I have to do.”

A sigh, and the man continues on his way to the house, pup cradled in his arms despite the wriggling struggle the little creature puts up, whining for its mother, its siblings, for Will who walks at Hannibal’s side.

“He will not be useful here, we are not a farm, Will, we have no use for as many dogs as you already have.”

“He will be useful to me,” Will insists, turning to walk backwards as Hannibal moves onwards, imploring, hands up to sooth the pup that wants to be let down, that knows Will’s hand as all the others, comes to it despite not being claimed yet. “They have taught me discipline, Hannibal, they have taught me patience and empathy. You have seen that come through in my studies and my fighting, you know I do not lie.”

“How will another hound help, Will? Beyond eating his weight in meat and costing money for your childish desire to keep him?”

Will’s brows furrow, distressed and knowing, too, that he cannot argue with Hannibal like this. He needs something more than this.

“Anything,” Will insists, one hand up to slow Hannibal as he speaks Neuri, words still chosen, not flowing, but fluent enough to be understood. “Anything, Hannibal, but you will not take him.”

A pause, then, Hannibal’s eyes hard, though he knows already that he has lost this battle, heart softening with every whine from the pup in his arms, with every desperate plea from the boy in front of him. 

“One reason, Will. Just one. Why this dog has to stay.” The words are harsher, takes Will a moment to understand them flowing as he does them separate. Then he swallows, straightens his shoulders, voice steady and low as he proclaims:

“You own sixteen horses on land that is not for farming, and you do not sell them.”

Hannibal tilts his head, stopped finally in his steps, and studies the boy. He has not taught him several of those words, though Hannibal uses them frequently enough when grumbling to himself that Will must have begun to piece them together, and the boy is not incorrect in the statement he makes any more than he is the language itself.

“I have tried,” he defends himself, in Greek again, eyes narrowed still. “Your people have no appreciation for them. They turn up their noses and huff and sigh about their size. Every Greek considers himself a giant. No less than Svantovid’s stallion for them, though few enough can ride the asses they keep.”

Will bites his lip to resist a smile, his own gaze just as sharp.

“The last man who came to look at them -”

“ - was unworthy of them,” Hannibal interjects. “I will not sell to someone who will not appreciate them.”

“He was going to give the price you asked,” answers Will, tongue parting his lips as though he can taste the nearness of his victory. “The price you set prohibitively high to dissuade him from doing so, and still you turned him away.”

Hannibal settles the wriggling pup closer against his chest, laying a hand across its head to quiet it and humming disapproval as it licks at his fingers instead. An argument well-made, and eloquent, and what Hannibal had suspected from the beginning becomes suddenly clear, as it does to the boy whose grin suddenly erupts, bright. Hannibal all but thrusts the pup at him.

“What is one more, when there is already a pack of them,” he grumbles, continuing empty-handed back towards the house.

He hound is released to the ground, obedient at Will’s feet, as the boy runs up behind Hannibal to hug him, arms wrapped around his middle, smile pressed between his shoulders.

“He will not forget,” Will promises him, nuzzling against Hannibal as the other pretends to merely endure the touches. “Nor will I. Not a day in his life.”

The dog, aptly, has gained the name “Stubborn”. For refusing to be taken away.

Hannibal watches as Will deliberately misses a step and rolls in the long grass with a laugh, the dogs all following as though it’s a game, and to them perhaps it is. All rolling in the grass, displacing it and pouncing on each other until Hannibal worries for the boy caught in the mess, but Will rises above it with a bright laugh, hands up to push his hair from his eyes before he bends to stroke every single one of them, talk to them and praise them. Then, with another whistle and a direction shown, he sends the dogs on their way, back to the kennels and the fields around them to enjoy the space where they won’t bother the grazing horses.

Will returns to the house alone, flushed and on trembling legs, grinning wide at Hannibal as he leans in the doorway.

“Swift caught a rabbit,” Will informs him, biting his lip before releasing it, “and ate it.”

“A menace,” responds Hannibal. “He will not hunt with us.” He finishes his milk all at once and considers, amused, “Or perhaps we will take him, and hope that a stag in rut makes a capable match.”

The dog had never been merciful, a beautiful, capable hunter in all but his ability to bring back a kill. More often than not, battered and thrashed or eaten before Will could get him to drop it. The first boy he had claimed, for his strength.

“May we work with the axes today?” Will asks, moving further into the room, to get to the pitcher of water, to seek out breakfast for himself.

“We may,” allows Hannibal, voice lightening at the request. Will has proven his talent with them, more suited to his size than the spear, and Hannibal can’t help but feel a particular pride that the boy has taken to the weapons of his people, rather than those preferred by the hoplites.

He extends an arm to catch Will around the waist as he passes, bringing the boy into his lap and brushing a kiss across his flushed cheek. “Riot will be ready soon enough for a real hunt, though I imagine she is already,” Hannibal considers, and Will settles pleased against him, entirely unsurprised that Hannibal has mentioned her, out of all of them.

“ _This one_ ,” he decided, hoisting the little thing up in one hand no sooner than their eyes had opened. “ _A fine hunter._ ”

Seated in the straw beside the squirming pups, Will draws his knees to his chest and laughs. “You can’t know that.”

“I can,” answers Hannibal, lifting her up and down as if testing her weight, her constitution, when all she wants is to scramble back to the milk and warmth of her mother.

“But it’s my choice,” Will grins, looping his arms around his shins. “You said so.”

“And you’ll choose to keep this one.”

“Because she is the only girl?” Will asks, amused, finding himself inexplicably pleased that Hannibal had listened to him, had taken in the advice that the brindled one was strong.

“Another good reason, if you intend to breed your dogs.”

Will presses his lips together, does not push his luck to suggest that he will have seven, already, with no need to breed more. He watches, instead, as Hannibal turns the little thing to look at her, sleepy warm paws, splayed toes and little pink claws reaching for him as she blinks, yawns, makes a gentle sleepy puppy sound.

“She will be strong,” Hannibal repeats, almost to himself, before setting the puppy back to let her crawl to her mother. Will watches, as he has done since the day the pups were born, as they all wriggle and nuzzle close for warmth and food. All so little, helpless still, and he knows he wants to keep every single one.

They both watch as she crawls over her siblings, kicking one aside to get to a teat to feed. Will buries his face in his arms to stifle a grin, delighted at just watching the puppies, watching the mother patiently lick them clean and warm them when they sleep…

“We can take her when you take me,” Will replies, reaching for a piece of fruit on the table to place between his lips as he turns hooded eyes to Hannibal. “Our first hunt, man and beast, Riot and I.”

The thought draws a pleased sound, low and rumbling, from the man before he leans in to kiss the sweetness of the fruit from Will’s mouth. The boy has improved on the horses, a comfortable rider growing in confidence, and the thought of him in pursuit of a stag, dogs at bay beside him, pulls a thrill shivering beneath Hannibal’s skin.

“Go and eat,” Hannibal smiles, lifting his chin as Will tilts another kiss against his lips, another, soft little things before he stands to make his way to the kitchen.

They train for the better part of the day, starting slow. Focus on posture and form, grip and angle, with Hannibal circling the boy to align him and adjust, to build the memories of movements that gradually begin to speed. More praise than criticism, now, and sometimes an outright enthusiasm, laughing when Will forces Hannibal to raise his shield with an unexpected blow of the blunted axe. He is lithe, strength building in his once-skinny limbs, but not at the cost of the speed that Hannibal seeks to hone in him.

Pitchers of water await them out back of the house, to rinse the dust and sweat from their bodies, and the sun warms them quickly to dry even as it sets across the Aegean, and together they recount the day’s lessons. Dinner awaits them inside, smoked goat and brined cheese and bread into which they tear ravenously and smear with butter, before washing it down with wine.

Will strikes up a game of checkers with one of the slaves, once dinner has been cleared, allowing Hannibal his space to speak with Asherah on matters of the house and retire to his room. It is only when Will seeks to do the same - after splitting his wins and his losses equally, to his consternation - that he goes to the door to call his dogs into the house.

The headcount is quicker, now, used to the sheer volume of dog that ends up filling his space that Will can tell within moments when one is missing. His first guess is always Stubborn, a good enough dog, and quick with commands but entirely distant, distracted, prone to wandering. But upon further inspection Will finds, to his endless amusement, that the dog missing is Yelp.

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal’s brows had furrowed, displeasure evident as Will had held up his second chosen puppy to keep. “ _It is the weakest, it will die quickly and bring no good to you at all._ ”

Will shook his head.

“He is my choice, and you cannot take him.”

“I cannot, but I urge you to be wise about this, Will. He is the weakest of the litter, he has not yet given voice, let alone shown any sign of strength or agility. He has been outcast by his siblings, he will be so for the rest of his life.”

Will cradles the pup against himself, the little thing nuzzling close, whining softly, but, as Hannibal had said, makes no other sound. He has not, at all, beyond weak little wheezes and grunting.

“You underestimate him,” Will tells Hannibal, determined to prove that his second choice, of the pups he has been gifted, is the correct one. The perfect one. “He will bring the gentleness to this pack that it needs, he will soothe and calm them.”

“You have two, Will, you do not have a pack.”

A grin, his only reply, as Will cradles the little thing against his chest, strokes behind his floppy ears.

“And what will you name it? Something to boost whatever qualities it has? Silent? Backwards? Keeper?”

“Yelp,” Will decides, laughing when Hannibal almost groans at the choice.

“Will -”

“Because he does not.”

And he hasn’t, since. Quiet wheezes and whines, the occasional sneeze, but never a bark, never giving voice like the others. And, throughout the months growing up, never once ostracized as Hannibal had feared. Now, Will settles his pack in his own chambers, those fast enough on the bed already, the rest sprawled on the floor beside, and makes his way to Hannibal’s. The door is open already, and Will leans his shoulder against the frame as he clears his throat.

“Return him.”

Had the boy merely lingered, Hannibal would have feigned sleep, but his bluff is called before he has had time to enact it. A brow raises at the demand, and Hannibal snorts at the boy draped in his doorway.

“He has made his choice. I had nothing to do with it.”

On his chest, at even a year already too big to fit comfortably, is sprawled Yelp, muzzle tucked contentedly beneath Hannibal’s chin. Twitching paws hang off either side of him, and Hannibal brings a hand up to cover the dog’s ears, lips thinning as Will laughs.

“Nonsense,” Will answers. “I’ve seen you with him.”

“I don’t know what your imagination breeds, Will, or what you think you may have seen...” Hannibal’s words cut off as the pup nuzzles even closer against his neck, tilting his head up and bringing on a look of dismay. “He makes no sounds, he cannot catch a scent, he does not bay or bark.”

A pause, and Will could nearly mouth the words before Hannibal says them, adding, “I should have given him as offering to the river.”

“He can out-swim you in the ocean,” Will points out, amused further by Hannibal’s displeasure at the - undeniably true - comment. “The river would have made him a fine God.”

A grumble of displeasure and Hannibal continues to recline with the heavy dog against his chest, who looks up only when Will says his name softly, tail thumping against the bed in joy to see his master, though he makes no move to get up, comfortable against the beating heart beneath him.

Will watches them both, a warmth in his chest at seeing Hannibal so taken with the dog he had once claimed to never want to touch. He has seen Hannibal carry the dog through the house, Yelp smiling in doggish joy, legs akimbo as he’s held by his armpits and manhandled to Hannibal’s chosen location for the day. Yelp is a dog that asks for little, he enjoys human contact and a lot of food. Most of both, Hannibal gives him in abundance, the rest, Yelp takes from Will.

Since his choice, Will has found himself tailed by the little creature, now not so little, everywhere. It was because of him that Will had initially begged to be allowed to house the dogs within his rooms. He knows, too, that it is because of Yelp that Hannibal agreed.

“You shan’t send him away?” Will asks again, amused. “Yelp, you shan’t come?” The dog’s tail beats against the mattress with mighty slaps, entirely joyful but too contented to move. Hannibal’s only response is to hum and shake his head. Will grins. He knows this game.

Without a word he arches, just a long stretch from toes to fingers, back bent and stomach sucked in as he allows his muscles to pull taut, his chiton to ride up, his breathing to come quicker, until Will makes a sound of deep, undeniable pleasure that vibrates through his chest and up against his throat as he smiles, settles back on bare feet.

“Then goodnight to you both,” Will mumbles, one hand against his thigh, the other up to tug his hair as he feigns a yawn, closes his eyes, bends again.

Hannibal hums a noncommittal sound, though he’s unable to turn his eyes away from the tunic’s hem, draped soft against the boy’s legs, watching as he turns to go. As if for emphasis - however unnecessary - Will scratches a hand against his lower back, tugging the chiton just a little higher again, its bottom grazing his own.

Yelp, predictably, makes no sound as Hannibal lifts him and sets him aside onto the bed, and on silent feet across the hard floor comes up fast behind Will. Powerful arms snatch him around the waist, lifting him much in the same way Hannibal carries Yelp, so that Will’s toes barely touch the floor.

The boy laughs, fondness filling in the spaces between Hannibal’s ribs as he buries his face against Will’s neck, turning to tote him back towards the bedroom.

“I would rather have you atop me, in truth.”

“Patience,” Will murmurs, wriggling only to put up a false struggle, lifting his knees and setting his feet to the bed before Hannibal can press down against him. “Yelp, home,” he commands, pointing, and the dog licks a wet patch over Will’s cheek as the boy laughs, before dropping heavily to the floor and loping to Will’s bedroom.

Will’s wriggling becomes a bit more meaningful, turning to lie on his back, watching Hannibal with a wide, bright grin, knees up around him, hands against the man’s arms.

“You atop me, me atop you,” he muses, bites his lip, and with a sigh, arches up against Hannibal to push himself up further on the bed. “Does it matter?”

Hannibal strokes a broad hand along the outside of Will’s thigh, leaning back just enough to turn his legs to the side and press them together. Leaning low, he brings his hips down rocking against the boy beneath him, and their mouths tangle deeply.

“So long as your pack does not join us,” Hannibal answers, amused, “it matters not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time, the breed most common was a mix of modern-day Irish Wolfhound and Bull Mastiff. To give you an idea, they would be about [this big](http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/images15/IrishWolfhoundFrankBrendan.JPG), very loud (except Yelp of course), and drooling. And Will has seven :3
> 
> Names for dogs actually found [here](http://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/how-ancient-greeks-named-their-puppies-1154943/?no-ist), and apparently historically accurate XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It is quite a view,” comes a familiar, soft voice, “from this side of the pitcher.” The water pours hot, pleasant and slow, until Hannibal arches into it, opens his eyes to regard Will above him. Will smiles, slowly kneels. “Good morning.”_

It is not uncommon for Hannibal to take his baths in the early mornings sometimes leaving Will in bed, unwoken, with a gentle kiss to his hair, to his bare shoulder, sometimes watching Will take up the sword or spear to practice before the dawn has hit them.

He has come to enjoy the mornings, alone. Not for want of genuine silence, not for want of space away, but because in the bath he can relax, he can close his eyes and drift in the heat of the water, steam curling against the scruff on his neck and chin.

He hums as one of the slaves pours warm water over him, brings a hand to his eyes when he hears them leave to refill the pitcher.

It is pleasant, here, in the small bath house built just off the main building. Quiet. He can hear the morning birds and insects waking, singing their soft music across the fields. If he slows his breathing further he can hear the ocean, as well, beneath.

He hears footsteps return, slicking just barely to the floor damp from condensation.

“It is quite a view,” comes a familiar, soft voice, “from this side of the pitcher.” The water pours hot, pleasant and slow, until Hannibal arches into it, opens his eyes to regard Will above him. Will smiles, slowly kneels. “Good morning.”

“Hello, Will,” responds Hannibal, pushing back the unbraided hair that hangs long around his shoulders.

Scrubbed clean with coarse ash, and rinsed beneath cold water, Hannibal’s skin is pink from the scraping clean of his body that settles now into the tub, filling slowly with each pitcher brought in steaming from where a larger pot heats above a fire. It is a time-consuming thing, altogether, and most days that call for a bath are simply a quick scrub and an icy pour to wash it away before he returns to his work or his teaching.

Amusement catches the corners of his eyes and he glances towards the door. “Giving him the morning off? Has he taken up your weapons in your place?”

Will’s smile gentles, and he ducks his head just enough to nuzzle behind Hannibal’s ear, a soft hum his only reply.

“He is stronger than I, he would be good with the spear,” Will replies at length, grinning where Hannibal can feel him before standing again, avoiding the lazy grab for his thigh as he leaves to refill the pitcher.

He does not take long to return. In truth, Will had asked, many mornings, on the etiquette of drawing a bath, helping with one. He had slept in this morning, had missed the ash, the cool water before the hot, but had intercepted the slave moments before, requesting to take his duties, asking him to help with the horses in Will’s stead - switching roles, just for a few hours.

Will does not pour standing, this time, instead he kneels again, one hand to hold the pitcher the other soothing beneath the hot water, cool fingers against Hannibal’s chest, splaying and curling, nails just dragging along pink skin until the water runs out and he sets the pitcher aside.

“You wake before the sun,” he tells him, lips warm, words still sleepy against Hannibal’s cheek.

Hannibal tilts his head into the kiss, a faint smile lingering. “And sleep lightly,” he responds. “A habit born of service and the preparedness it teaches.” He lifts a hand to press over Will’s, and spreads the boy’s palm higher across his chest. Watching as his fingers curl through the damp swath of hair, over the images laid long ago in his skin, finally Hannibal closes his eyes, and settles a little deeper.

“So it was at Marathon,” Hannibal adds, brows lifting beneath the hair stuck to his face. “We suspect their horses were still let out to pasture for the night, and woke early enough that we could confront them before they again became a cavalry.”

With a sigh, he releases the thoughts, and his eyes crack open just enough that he can see the boy so near, and lift a hand to twist into one of Will’s long curls. “What’s your reason, peacemaker? I left you to sleep long this morning.”

Will hums, having woken when Hannibal had drawn his lips over his skin. He could have slept, body worked to exhaustion from the training the day before, from the roughness of Hannibal’s taking him later still. Will shivers, remembering.

"To serve,” he purrs, another brief brush of lips against the soft stubble over Hannibal’s jaw as the older man curls his fingers deeper against Will’s hair. Then the boy grins, pulls from his grasp again.

"The general requires another pitcher of water,” he breathes, delighting in the sound he draws from Hannibal at the title, at the tease as he, once more, barely avoids his hand against his thigh.

Watching the boy go, bare feet shuffling and tunic swaying, Hannibal sighs and allows his smile to broaden, briefly. Though Hannibal’s attendance to his duty has never wavered - teaching the boy, instilling every skill that he might need to see him into manhood - their fondness has grown well beyond what he would have expected from any _eromenos_ , let alone one who began his apprenticeship so stubbornly.

In retrospect, Hannibal considers, he would not have wished for any less, and can only imagine how much worse he himself would have been in Will’s position.

Carefully cradling the pitcher, steam coiling into the air from it, Will returns to beside the bath and bites his lip in concentration. A little pour first, just to lighten the weight of it, before his hand returns to Hannibal’s skin, rubbing in slow circles over his stomach.

“Have you given up on soldiering and study?” teases Hannibal softly, drawing a breath as Will’s hand slips to the trail of hair that runs lower, and then strokes back upward again. “Pursuing a new job entirely, in attending the bathhouse.”

"Attending my erastes in the bathhouse," Will corrects, another teasing stroke down to Hannibal's thighs without touching him, a deliberate avoidance. "Learning humility in attending my master."

Will bites his lip, feeling the shiver that runs through Hannibal’s body at such simple touches, touches that in bed would be barely felt and tickling, but here, beneath the water, Will taking on a role he is not required to in their arrangement, by choice... here it is something else entirely.

"Can I not be a soldier and this both?" he goads. "Someone to spar with, someone to soothe you after?" A gentle nip against Hannibal’s earlobe, as once the man had shown him, bending Will almost backwards in his desire at the sensation.

"And I will practice," Will murmurs, "until I can perform all of my duties flawlessly." His hand finally circles Hannibal's cock, just once, one long pull, before Will removes his hand from the bath and goes to stand. "And then, perhaps, I will practice more in the public bathhouses and symposia."

With a gentle brush to Hannibal's hair, Will turns to go again.

“You will not,” Hannibal answers, sloshing water against the side of the tub as he turns to grab for Will, and his fingers slip wet from Will’s leg as the boy trots away with a lilting laugh. “If you are yet in practice, then you will practice with me only.”

“Oh?” Will laughs again from outside. “Is that an order, general?”

Draping one arm over the edge of the heavy bronze bath, Hannibal folds the other beneath his chin and turns to his side to watch for Will’s return. “A standing order,” the man calls back agreeably, “until such time as I dismiss it.”

He sees the boy’s shadow, stretched long across the ground with the rising sun at his back, and knows he stands just outside the doorway to seem still occupied with his fetching of water. Hannibal can hear the grin, all big teeth and crooke pleasure, as Will responds, “But would I not benefit from other experiences, general? The unique energies of new sparring partners, learning the needs of others -”

“No,” Hannibal interrupts, an intense pleasure in the game between them. “I assure you I have plenty of energy for sparring and soothing, alike.”

A soft breath suggesting Will’s soft laugh before he finally emerges through the doorway again, pitcher supported by wet fingers. He watches Hannibal as Hannibal watches him, hungry and warm, deeply affectionate, now, together. Will stops just out of reach and schools his expression. 

"Will you not turn for the water?"

Hannibal slowly shakes his head. Will feels himself blush and bites just the inside of his lip.

"Set the pitcher down," Hannibal tells him, tone soft but commanding enough to be clear. Will bends to obey, enough that Hannibal knows what he would see were he behind him. A swallow, only, as his response as Will straightens once more. "Come closer."

Will grins, cheeks and nose pink with pleasure, and takes a step, another. "Any more commands, general?" he teases softly.

Though the boy is near enough to grasp, Hannibal resists the urge, allowing the pluck of tension to ring soft and thrilling between them. Desiring and desirable, each to the other.

“Will you bare yourself for me?” asks Hannibal. Will lifts his chin, as once he did in stubbornness and anger, he does now for the beautiful angles it creates and to see Hannibal’s eyes darken in response.

“Is that a command?”

Hannibal nods, a gentle smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and with rosy cheeks and reddened lips, Will parts them with his tongue and grins, reaching to tug his tunic off over his head and shake free his wild curls of hair. He tosses the garment to the ground and folds his hands behind his back, one leg cocked, becoming in an instant statuesque and serene, the perfect image of an _eromenos_ that any man would envy.

And he is Hannibal’s, entirely his.

“Your hands,” the man intones softly. “As before.”

Will ducks his head, brings his hands before him again and moves closer still to gracefully sink to his knees by the side of the tub, close enough for Hannibal to touch, if he so wished. The man seems contented to just watch, allow Will his freedom in movement here.

Will does lean closer, lips parted just before Hannibal's, brushing, feeling the warm breath against them, but not yet kissing. Slowly, cool fingers slip against Hannibal’s neck, careful to brush his hair back behind his shoulders as Will works them over the tendons and pulse, steady and strong. A pulse he knows so well now, falls asleep against, most mornings wakes to.

Lower, lower Will’s fingers travel, before he pulls back to just watch, to bury his hand gently in the wet hair of Hannibal’s chest, trace the tattoos he can name, now, describe and almost trace himself by memory.

His other hand he sets against Hannibal’s cheek, keeping his face angled up, eyes to Will’s as Will touches, rather than down to his cock, stirring to hardness between his legs where he kneels.

Will reaches beneath the water, curls over Hannibal’s cock, shudders out a breath and finally breaks eye contact himself, to duck his head, demure.

Though he is heavy-lidded with want, with need that curls a shiver that curls up his back, Hannibal does not lower his eyes in kind, nor close them. As though he were weightless, the boy holds his whole being at attention with merely a touch, and Hannibal can do no more than to rest his cheek against Will’s gentle fingers.

He does not need to see him touch, he does not need to see what the boy has bared for him. It is enough to rest his gaze on the petaled curve of Will’s lips and the pale freckles that dot beneath a rich bloom of rose, the vining curls of his hair and eyes as infinite and blue as the sea that they can hear as if the waves themselves were in time with their breath.

He is a wonder, this boy, and Hannibal can do little more than remain so happily held by him.

“Will,” sighs the man, swallowing down the air that has pushed itself from his chest. “Will you kiss me?” A hesitation, and a laugh as the boy’s eyes dart in amusement to meet his own, forcing Hannibal to rephrase himself. “Kiss me, Will. I demand it.”

It is a pleasant game, truly, to have Hannibal so in his thrall. Will bites his lip before leaning close, up on his knees, to kiss Hannibal properly. He moans, just a soft thing, parts his lips to feel Hannibal's tongue against his own and shivers with the sensation.

It is almost a shock to feel Hannibal's hot hands against his skin, wetting it, spreading the warmth there as he strokes down Will’s spine to the curve of his ass and back again, into his hair to hold him close as Will keeps stroking.

The barrier between them is almost cruel, but Will does not move to overcome it until told, until Hannibal pulls back, nuzzles him and murmurs, rough, for Will to _come closer_.

It is not hard for Will to arch, lips still close to Hannibal's, hand in his hair holding him close as he bends almost entirely in half, and step into the hot water. Will gasps, the temperature hotter than he had anticipated, skin having cooled in the early morning air, and sets both hands on the side of the tub for balance as he lowers himself to kneel between Hannibal’s legs.

"Anything my general commands,” he breathes, smiling, before kissing Hannibal deep again, hands up against his face as he lies against him entirely in the tub, water sloshing up over the curve of his back, against the tops of his thighs. Firm arms secure Will against the older man, fingers pressing against his spine, into his hair, slide lower onto his ass, far too few hands for as many places as Hannibal wishes to touch and push against himself all at once.

Rocking slow, they slide their hips together, cocks brushing against one another, against smooth stomachs and soft hair. None more urgent than the other, no need to rush and consummate when simply being drawn so near is satisfaction enough.

“Perhaps a rotation,” suggests Hannibal, chasing Will’s mouth for another kiss as the water curls up around their faces with the movement of their bodies. “I think this is a far better fit for you than the stalls.” Shoulders drawing upwards in a shudder as Will snares his fingers against Hannibal’s chest hair, the man hums when a gentle tug pulls against it, before Will splays his hand there again. “Surely,” he adds with a rakish grin, “you cannot expect me to return to such inattentive attendants after this?”

"Have you tried this with them?" Will asks, entirely amused, delighted, happy to catch Hannibal's bottom lip between his own in a light tug to save him answering. He thinks of how he could give up some of his stable duties for this, to feel Hannibal so close, and so warm against him.

Will bites his lip, rubbing against Hannibal in a needy, aching way, turning one way then another to change the angle, to add friction in the hot water between them. Hannibal catches a hand against Will’s cheek, watches as Will nuzzles against it.

"Stay still," he murmurs. "Just as you are, stay still." A soft kiss to assure the request is not in anger, that the touches will resume, and Hannibal moves, enough to gently set Will’s knee closer to his other, to slide out from beneath him and move to frame him from behind. "Bend further," Hannibal whispers against Will’s ear, gently tugging the strands of his hair behind it. "Bend like you did at the baths for me. And it was for me, the entire show, the words and defiance."

Will trembles, remembering, turns just enough to see Hannibal behind him, to earn another purred command against his skin. "Arch your back for me, Will."

His hand skims the beautiful dip the boy creates when he drops his belly lower than his hips, following the curve to the round of his ass and squeezing softly. A little sound, high and needy in response, and Hannibal presses his fingers a little harder against the boy’s pale skin. Slick kisses drag against his damp back, across the smooth planes of his shoulderblades, the ridges of his spine, each and every part of his body - his being, the unbridled spirit that moves him and tosses his head now to gaze smiling crooked back across his shoulder - something to be adored.

“A new way to still the clash of weapons and shields, peacemaker,” Hannibal muses, “by offering yourself instead. Even I am unresistant to your tactics, clever boy.” He slips his fingers between Will’s wet thighs, pressing them between to feel the tightness of his muscles, and exhaling roughly as Will clenches them firmer still. Fingertips graze the back of his balls, teasing the delicate skin enough to raise up a shiver that shakes the boy into a laugh.

“But,” adds Hannibal, amusement light in his voice, “how shall I repay your services, for attending to my bath so skillfully?”

Will smiles, head ducked and cheeks flushed, feeling always vulnerable to be beneath Hannibal in this way but never frightened, never demeaned. He wonders if it’s possible to face Hannibal, with this, to see him as he pushes in between Will’s clenched thighs. He wants to, oh, he wants to.

“Soothe the fire within me?” Will asks softly, shifting from one knee to the other in a gentle shuffle that rubs his thighs slick against the hand still between them. “Have mercy on my patience.”

The sun is quick to crawl over the horizon now, lighting the room further, warming the air despite Will shivering within it. He knows that he would just now be waking, finding the bed empty and the warmth of Hannibal still pressed amidst the folds of messy sheets. But instead he is here, bending deeper for the man as Hannibal presses hot kisses to his skin, down his spine, to the arch just above the curve of his ass.

There is hardly enough room for them both in the tub, so small that Hannibal is forced to draw up his knees when he reclines in it. Hannibal guides the boy forward, until he rises a little more and loops his arms over the edge of the bath, propped enough that he can watch as Hannibal dips his tongue through the crease of Will’s thighs. He laps the water from his legs, higher and higher until he is between the boy’s cheeks, where he sucks a hungry kiss, open-mouthed and humming.

It’s enough that Will’s watching of him is cut short, eyes fluttering closed as he moans and lets his head roll forward, shoulders hunched and hips rolling back against the warm press of tongue against his opening. Just enough pressure for the tip of his tongue to enter, forcing an unsteady little cry from the boy, before he circles the quivering muscle with his lips again.

This is Will’s most desired and sought pleasure, something he never explicitly asks for but finds a way to beg for regardless. Since Hannibal had shown him this, the first night as Will had learned his scars, he has not been able to forget the feeling, and had not been able to control his responses to it whenever Hannibal had felt the need to torment him so again.

Will presses his lips against his arm, trying to keep the sounds quiet - quieter - as Hannibal continues the hot kisses, pressing firmer and firmer to Will until he bends further still, eyes closed and brows furrowed as his entire body trembles with the need for more, and less all at once.

He can feel himself growing harder from this alone, from the way he is supported, gently, against his thighs, the way Hannibal does not at all restrain him to this, and Will holds still on his own - not only still, but rocking back, arching back, demanding more. His breathing comes in pants, harsh and raw and needy, that soon become voiced, soft moans and little whimpers of need.

And just as suddenly as this pleasure began to coil tight through his stomach, his limbs, down to the curl of his toes, it stops, and Will blinks wide. Hannibal’s breath against his backside is warm as he laughs, a rich, low sound.

“Why do you quiet yourself?” he asks, grazing another kiss against the boy. “Don’t act now as if you don’t wish for it.” A pause, and his smile narrows his eyes. “Constantly.”

Will hides his grin behind his arm, lip between his teeth, and twists his body beckoning Hannibal nearer, though the man resists with strong hands against his legs. “We could be overheard,” he admits, face flushed from shyness and the heat of the bath alike.

Hannibal is convinced he’s never seen anything quite so lovely.

“And if they do,” the man teases, “what then? As if they have not heard it before. Seen it, more than once. Should I not call him back then to pour water over us as we press ourselves together?”

“No,” Will murmurs, feels himself blush darker when Hannibal just smiles. “No! _Oh_ -”

Enough to catch him off guard, Will’s voice rings in the room at the feeling of Hannibal’s tongue again. For a brief moment there is silence, stark, clear silence, after, with no more sounds than the water lapping at the sides of the tub, and Hannibal’s soft breaths against Will’s skin, and then Will forgets his shame, pushes it so far within himself it can no longer stifle him, and _moans_.

Many times he has been caught by his wrist in the hallway, pressed against the wall as Hannibal turns his head to the side with a rough nuzzle and warm words, many times he has spread his legs as Hannibal’s rough hands pushed the tunic up high on his thighs, many times he has allowed himself to be lifted, legs curled around Hannibal’s hips as the man rutted against him.

And every time Will had enjoyed it.

How many times, then, had a slave walked past? How many had seen his flushed face and parted lips, heard his begging and keening little pleas? How many know, that by right, Hannibal can do this, that by right, he is entitled?

Will shivers hard, his entire body shaking with the sensation before he parts his lips wider and gives voice to everything he feels, digs his nails against the bronze, turns his head to have his voice echo from the curve of the bath they share.

Hannibal’s approval is heard in the almost animal growl that rumbles from his chest, felt in the drive his tongue pressing deep enough to part the boy again and raise his moans to a high, aching pitch, beautiful and sweet. Will pleads for him, across languages and gasping breaths, words half-formed and thoughts scattered by the movement of Hannibal’s mouth against him. A hand splashes against the water as Will drops it touch himself, short eager strokes that Hannibal does not stop, but takes it upon himself to feel when he curls his hand loose over Will’s arm.

He envies the boy his youth, his fervor, the unfettered desire running rampant through him that makes Will more available to many more dalliances than Hannibal can keep up with. But since that boyish energy is no longer his, he savors it instead, the thrill of bringing the boy to incoherency again and again, as often as he is able, encouraging it with firm hands and a hot tongue even when Hannibal himself needs no release.

Pulling back, he snares the boy by the hips to drag him close again, and turns him onto his back, slouched against the slope of the tub as his hand works frantic beneath the water.

“Your face,” Hannibal purrs, leaning near to kiss his cheeks, his lips that part on another wanton moan. “I want to see it.”

He spreads his legs to either side of Will’s own, bringing his thighs tightly together, and strokes his own hardness a few times in quick jerks before pressing himself between Will’s legs with a groan.

“Oh,” Will shivers, presses his thighs tight on reflex, arches up with a nervous little laugh. “Gods, yes, Hannibal -”

It takes him a moment to open his eyes properly, blinking rapidly before he sees Hannibal, parts his lips to kiss him and folds his arms up over the older man’s shoulders, moaning, gasping into the thrusts that send water sloshing against them.

“I didn’t know you could -” he starts, finds himself unable to continue for fear of wavering, for fear of snapping his sentence in half as his voice breaks on another whimper of pleasure. He reaches, blind, to touch Hannibal’s face, to stroke his cheek and bring him close to kiss again, begging with his body, arching and twisting and bending for him until Hannibal presses his hand against Will’s cock again and the boy jerks.

“I’m going - so soon - I’m sorry - _oh_ -” Will trembles, laughs, twists and slaps one hand down against the side of the tub, squeaking against the metal as it slips beneath the water and up against Hannibal’s thighs instead.

Hannibal’s lips part in a joyous snarl, teeth bared in a grin as he turns the boy’s head aside with his cheek to suck against his neck, and trace with his tongue the sweet curve of it from his shoulder to his jaw.

“Do not apologize,” he growls, voice rough with need and want and all manner of desires in between, his hand unrelenting, his hips unyielding as he drives himself again and again between Will’s legs. The head of his cock rubs against the boy’s ass, against where his mouth held the boy bent quivering moments before, a new sensation for them both to feel that friction, _there_.

Enough to render even Hannibal into harsh gasps, a hiss when Will clings harder to the man’s strong thighs, digging his nails in for traction against the muscles that flex with every thrust. Their mouths meet, again and again in passing from one part to the next, shoulders and chins and necks and ears and always stealing the sighs from each other’s lips whenever they brush near again.

Will is dizzy, the water filling the tub just enough to have him almost buoyant, Hannibal pushing up him against the back of it enough to arch Will’s back, bend his neck back for Hannibal to suck marks against. It is almost brutal, this claiming, and Will no longer holds his voice, no longer stops himself whimpering Hannibal’s words to the room at large, no longer stops himself moaning his pleasure.

 _The water will be all over the floor_ , Will thinks with a laugh, as his body coils and twists and Hannibal works him closer and closer to his release.

“Please,” he gasps, “please, please, Hannibal -”

He doesn’t wait for permission, perhaps was never asking for any, and arching almost fully out of the water, Will cums, hard and hot against Hannibal’s hand. Thighs tight and lips parted on pants and moans and a laugh, breathless and warm.

Only for this does Hannibal still his own movements, only for this does his entire breath stop in his chest, gasped as though Will’s laughter were his own, and he watches with hooded eyes as pleasure sweet and earnest shakes the boy from laughter, to a grin, to a kiss nuzzled dizzy against Hannibal’s jaw, his chin, his mouth, finally, parting slowly to taste Will’s tongue against his own.

Hannibal’s own release washes over him as gently as the water that laps against the sides of the tub with their movements. A few slow turns of his hips, a sigh, and a shudder that pulls his body briefly taut, before he sinks heavy into Will and catches him around the waist, to turn them both clumsily and bring the boy atop him again.

Cheeks reddened from eager exertion, lips damp as they wrap together with Will’s until both part laughing, Hannibal strokes a hand back over the boy’s curls, clinging to his face, to look on him with something very much like wonder.

“You have taken the fight from me, peacemaker,” Hannibal murmurs. “Perhaps you are just that.”

Will grins, sleepy and wet and wanting nothing more than to crawl back to bed and doze the entire day against Hannibal, or amongst his hounds if the man wishes to get up. But he knows, that once they are washed, once the bath is emptied, they will go outside, that Will will run his hounds along the beach and return to train with the sword and bow and arrow. That in the evening they will take a meal, Hannibal gently coaxing Will to not speak Greek, to practice, instead. That later on, still, they will fold together in bed, mouths warm and words whispered, until that, too, passes and they ease into sleep.

“Perhaps I am,” Will agrees, a soft kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. “For you alone.”

More kisses, slow and eagerly received, until the water cools. Until they work themselves free from it and draw hands over skin to gently wash it clean.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will let you tend my bath,” answers Hannibal. “But you may need one as well after today. We will forgo our normal lessons together in favor of working with your horse. She’s old enough now to begin to take weight, a blanket to begin. Does this please you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, how could we forget the genuine threat of the Persian empire?
> 
> This chapter is brought to you via a [commission](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/donate) by the incredible [Fishybeer](http://fishybeer.tumblr.com/) who we adore to pieces. Thank you so much for your support, lovely! We hope you enjoy!

How the animals differentiate between Will’s sharp, short whistles is a mystery to Hannibal, but he knows that somehow they do. That somehow Will can curve the sound, bend it to call his hounds or send them away, turn it to attract the attention of his filly, still too small to ride, but already used to the pack of hounds that play nearby.

Will’s control of his animals is very much how Hannibal had commanded the phalanxes entrusted to his guidance; precise, calm and entirely too efficient. Hannibal cannot be anything but proud of his boy, now grown much stronger, learned with discipline in his studies and training both.

He watches Will most mornings, a dark silhouette as the sky lightens behind him, sword now blurring before him, until he steps back, adjusts his stance, and tries again. And again. And again. Over and over with sword and axes and the bow, until he is shaking with adrenaline and the tension in his muscles, until the sun is up and Hannibal hears the hounds pound through the house at Will’s whistle to the back door to run with him.

Will has grown marginally taller, not yet enough to avoid lifting his chin beautifully to look up at Hannibal, but taller than the lithe little thing he had brought struggling to his home a year ago. Will returns, now, body and hair wet with the cool water from the bucket outside, still hot from exertion as his chiton sticks to his back and thighs. 

Small arms curl around Hannibal's middle, lips press between his shoulders as he stands at the kitchen table, working on something for their meal later that day as breakfast lays presented already.

"Tonight I will draw you a bath," Will decides. "Steaming water and small hands to rub you clean."

Hannibal’s fingers snare the skin of the hare beneath him and with a quick jerk, pulls it free of the pale muscle beneath. He regards Will over his shoulder, brow raised, and murmurs, “You exhaust me.” Watching him, Will blinks, startled lips parting, before Hannibal adds in amusement, “Your energy, not your hands, though those too take their toll in keeping me sedate.”

Careful to keep his hands away from Will’s chiton, dirt-browned through it is, Hannibal turns with arms outstretched to lean low and kiss the boy leaning against him.

“I will let you tend my bath,” answers Hannibal. “But you may need one as well after today. We will forgo our normal lessons together in favor of working with your horse. She’s old enough now to begin to take weight, a blanket to begin. Does this please you?”

He doesn’t need to ask. He shouldn’t care, in truth, and knows that most _erastes_ do not, will not give their boy such leverage in showing that they do. But still his smile widens along with Will’s, a fullness and warmth easing into his chest.

Any day that involves working with the animals and not just seeing them from afar is a day Will counts as a personal victory. He kisses Hannibal again, a lingering, languid thing, before releasing him to continue preparing the hare, going to get a cup of water for himself as his body relaxes with promise of an easy day ahead.

He settles at the table, one leg curled beneath himself, and reaches for some berries, ripe and fresh, some still with the tiny stems and leaves attached. Will knows they come from Hannibal’s home, but he has yet to find the grove. He supposes it’s for the best, considering how many he would eat. He watches Hannibal, his own lips painted dark with juice, and carefully sucks his finger clean.

“She will not like the blanket,” he points out, amused, and Hannibal sends him a brief look of partial amusement before returning to the task at hand. 

“Not at all. But better it land in the dirt than you.”

Will grins, takes another berry.

“She will learn not to fear it,” Hannibal continues. “Learn to accept it as she’s learned to accept your touches and your calls to her. The blanket first, and then we will work our way to a saddle. It will be a long and frustrating process,” he warns the boy. A pause, and then a hint of a smile, wry. “Breaking in the young ones usually is.”

Strong but careful fingers work the offal out of the hare and he sets it into a bowl for the dogs, like so many of the kitchen scraps though already scraps alone are not enough to feed them all.

“Besides that, her back is still soft,” Hannibal tells the boy, slathering the rabbit in an olive oil steeped with herbs. “And you are not as small as you once were. You would bend her spine were I to sit you on her now, if she allowed it for longer than it took her to put you on your head instead.”

He passes off the rabbit to one of the slaves waiting nearby to begin cooking it, and wipes his hands off on a cloth before finally grasping Will’s chin, to kiss him properly. Softly sucking the sweetness of the berries from his lips, Hannibal’s other hand comes to rest on Will’s leg, and a hum rumbles softly from him.

“She will learn to tolerate me,” Will murmurs with a smile, eyes still closed as he leans in to rub his nose gently alongside Hannibal’s as the man still holds him close. “You did.” 

Another soft kiss and Will pulls back to look at Hannibal properly, the lines that have etched into his skin from stress and lack of sleep, from age itself, Will assumes, though he has never asked it, and does not much care to know it. Between them, it does not matter. He shifts his leg enough to bring Hannibal’s hand more intimately close, and grins.

“Eat with me,” Will invites. “Savor the morning before frustration sets in.”

A rougher kiss snared from him, enough to draw a sweet sound of surprise from the boy, pulled into a longer and more lurid moan when Hannibal presses his palm between Will’s legs and strokes him once, before withdrawing with a slow smile.

“Where do you find the energy,” Hannibal sighs. “I envy it.”

He withdraws only to take over cooking the hare for them, filling their home with the savory smell of fresh meat and rich flavors. A glance is turned towards Will, berry-stained and beautiful, more than once, and always with a particular fondness that Hannibal couldn’t hide if he wished. They eat together, as much from the other as for themselves, portions of rabbit fed with oil-slick fingers to the other’s lips and washed down with sweet water rather than wine, at Hannibal’s insistence that both keep their senses about them fully when it comes to training.

The horses are hard at play in the field when they arrive, excitement in the still-early warmth of the day twitching through their muscles and sending the heads tossing as they see Hannibal and Will approach. Hannibal’s mare is first to the fence, Will’s filly close at her heels, and he greets her in a flurry of rough Neuri spoken tenderly. His fingers splay beneath her soft muzzle, expression softening instantly even as she snorts against his palm, and he rubs briskly across the bridge of her nose as Will wrestles with the long woven lead taken from the stables.

“Do you want me to snare her for you?” Hannibal offers.

Will shakes his head, but it isn’t petulant, more a youthful determination that Hannibal is certain will fade with the passing of the day and the filly’s insistence on staying wild. He keeps it as much out of sight as he can when he reaches for the horse, gentler than Hannibal in his petting, still, though the little horse nuzzles against Will with just as much fervor as her mother against Hannibal. 

She is a beautiful girl, taller now on legs more stable, but still too small to ride, too small to even imagine riding. Will leans down to press his forehead to hers and finds her already playful in her attempts to avoid him. Will laughs, shakes his head with narrowed eyes and slings the lead, looped and loosely knotted, over his own neck.

Again he reaches forward, again finds the little creature cooperative in her affection, playful in her denial of Will getting closer. But slowly, gently, he coaxes her with soft words and light whistles to stay still, trembling in her excitement, as he presses their foreheads together and gently rubs her nose in praise.

The motion is swift, the loop slung from Will’s neck to the filly’s in one motion and grabbed as she yanks back in panic and betrayal both, bucking and whining at her mother as she finds it impossible to escape back into the field, and Will holds the lead tight, wrapped around his arm.

“You are strong for a little girl,” he soothes her. “Proud little thing. And _you_ chose me, not your shy and calmer brother.”

“Your animals reflect your personality,” Hannibal tells him, amused, as Will grunts his agreement and tries to keep a good grip on the lead.

“She will learn,” Will says, not unkindly, echoing his father’s words of months ago, when he had presented his son to Hannibal as an _eromenos_ , when Will had felt himself entirely betrayed.

“She will,” agrees Hannibal, folding his arms against the wooden fence. “And she’ll make you work just as hard for it as you’ll make her.”

The filly’s distress hurtles her body into the air, all four hooves leaving the ground, again and again in wild flailing, eyes flashing white and breath coming in rough snorts. Her mother lets out a shrill noise of dismay, as the other horses in the field watch from a safe distance, the little ones quivering in nervous observance of their sister’s fate.

“Careful.” Hannibal snares Will around the waist as the yearling digs her hooves into the earth and yanks backward, nearly taking Will over the fence with her. He grasps the rope with both hands and frees it from Will’s arm, clucking his tongue and looping it over the fencepost instead. “You’ll pull your arm out that way. You think holding a shield is hard now?”

He runs a hand down Will’s back, lets it linger there, fingers curling, for a moment before pushing back from the fence to stretch. “Talk to her. You’ll not come near her with a blanket today. She’ll run from you when next she sees the rope. But let her learn your voice and to associate it with overcoming her fright. Teach her that no harm will come to her when you’re here.”

Will nods, rubbing his arm where the rope had bitten into it, left a red mark before Hannibal had untangled it from him. The filly does not hear him when he soothes her, when he whistles and holds out his hand. She struggles against the rope, bucking and kicking, pawing the earth until beneath her there is no grass but deep wounds in the mud.

It takes a long time for her energy to expire enough for her to still, and then she stands shaking, sweat sticking her still-furry coat to her haunches, her back. Will does not brave the fence until she has stepped closer herself, not wanting the rope to keep her so tightly bound. Only then, his voice hoarse from constant reassurance and soft words, does Will take the bucket with water that Hannibal hands him, and goes to his horse to offer her that comfort.

She does not let him, walking the semi-circle the rope allows her to put as much distance between Will and herself, despite his words, reassurances and gentle gestures. After a while he just sits, as he had the first time she had come to him on her own, on his knees in the mud she had kicked up, the bucket just past arms reach. He waits, as the filly continues her gentle tugging on the rope she can’t break, tempted by the water but determined to show Will her displeasure at the rough treatment.

Not for many minutes, an hour, perhaps, does she move, until the call of the water is too great to resist and she goes, slowly, cautiously, and drinks. Will does not move to touch her, allows her the peace to drink, but he continues the litany of reassurances, calling her strong and brave, his worthy horse, his beautiful girl. Over and over until the water is finished and the filly flinches from Will’s reach when he moves to try and touch her.

Hannibal restrains a laugh, instead smiling softly as he watches the boy’s frustration furrow his brow and set a frown across his lips. The filly swishes her tail, quick snaps, and Hannibal suggests, “Stand, Will, should she determine that the best way to go is through you rather than around.”

The agitation of boy and horse continues, every day that they spend together. Dismay that she stays out of arm’s reach when Will whistles for her now, alarm that sends her flying off into the field each time she sees the rope. After a particularly bad day, that wound with Will in the mud not by choice but by a failed attempt to snare her, he hardly speaks through dinner but to glare at his plate, or Hannibal when he tries to strike up a conversation.

“It’s cruel,” Will huffs.

“The lessons most worth learning usually are,” agrees Hannibal, and he earns another sullen look for it.

“She came to me before and now she won’t at all.”

“So what will you do?” asks Hannibal. “It is not in her nature to carry you, as it was not in your nature to learn to fight. You resisted every bit as stubbornly as she, and now how do you feel for it?”

“I cannot explain to her the horror of war to force her mind to surrender as mine did,” Will mumbles sullenly, pushing food around on his plate, taking it up to eat when Hannibal makes a sound of displeasure for Will not to waste. He does not, clears his plate, but his mood does not lighten even curling up against Hannibal in their bed when they finally retire. Preoccupied with the fear in the young horse’s eyes when she sees Will now, when she had once nuzzled him so happily, came at his whistle.

In the morning, Will braves the field with an apple, the rope looped around his belt to obscure it from the little filly’s sight. Animal instinct has her running fast and far, but the months of Will training her to his whistle win out, at length, and he draws her closer to the fence with promise of an apple, gentle touches to her nose, and the same words murmured as he had done when she was tied.

He does not trick her with closeness for the lead today, but he does manage to snare her, securing it close against the fence so she cannot run as far, and this time, Will does not wait for the horse to calm. He climbs the fence when she is in a frenzy, hands gentle at her neck, against her shoulder, down her back as he steps up against her and presses her shaking body between his own and the fence.

“Still,” he breathes. “Still, strong girl, strength must know its place.”

She shudders beneath him, stamping her feet to try to move forward, backward, to the side, but Will remains calm, a comforting weight against her - a touch she knows, he reminds her in a soft murmur. A friend, and not a predator. As much hers as she is his own.

From a distance Hannibal observes, standing slowly from where he has knelt over Yelp to vigorously scratch the big puppy’s belly. The dog stumbles to his feet, all movement and whining around Hannibal until he offers his hand to be licked with enthusiasm.

It’s something Hannibal has not seen before - hasn’t imagined, let alone tried, to soothe the creatures in all their youthful ignorance and wild fury. He watches as Will strokes a hand against her twitching withers, down her back to the haunches that drive her hooves hard into the soil. Slower, though, each time, less spiteful in her stamping, until - with Will and his horse sweating in kind - she finally settles, as exhausted as the boy himself who all but lays across her back now.

A kinship, companionable and gentle in their mutual distress, that Hannibal watches with a swelling of pride the likes of which he’s never felt before.

“My pride,” Will murmurs against the horse, hands up to stroke behind her ears, to brush against the furry mane, “Envy of the army, wild girl. Look at you.”

He is entirely lost in the care, unaware of anyone or anything else but the steady breath of the horse against him, the way she doesn’t toss her head but ducks it, lifts, over and over, paws softly at the ground in something more akin to annoyance but not distress. Will draws his hand just above where the rope tethers her, just beneath, repeating his praise, soothing her with gentle touches, making her understand that it is not a cruelty, this, but a necessity that he can ease for her.

Will does not leave her side as she settles, drawing his hands over her as he does when he grooms her, a familiar comfort in a situation she does not like, does not enjoy, to soothe her, to associate the good with the new. Over and over until his palms tingle, feel numb from the sensation, slick with her sweat and his own.

“Just listen to me, you know my voice, the rest is air around you,” Will murmurs, taking half a step from her, hands still against her trembling neck. “Just my voice, you know me.” Another step, another, until Will can come around to stand in front of her and soothe her softly there, eyes to hers, smile the same as the one he wears when he calls her close for a treat or a brush.

She seems contented, now, calmed, and Will leans forward to press his forehead to hers. And it’s enough to startle her into motion, nothing more than a few nervous steps, but enough to step on Will in the process, drawing a cry from him that upsets the horse further.

“Hey, hey no, hey, it’s alright. Listen to me, listen to my voice, don’t fear it.” His voice is strained and he holds his foot above the mud as his brows draw in pain. The horse whines, shifts nervously from side to side, but allows Will to touch her, to stroke her soothingly to calm again. When he removes the rope, she bolts for the fields, but not as far as her fear has driven her before, just enough to get to the sweet grass, to nuzzle her mother who stands waiting.

Just as gentle as Will’s touch had been, Hannibal settles a hand between his shoulders, the distance closed quick between them when he saw the boy stepped on.

“I’m fine,” Will insists, and truly, Hannibal could hope to hear nothing else, returning a smile when Will turns to him grinning. “Did you see?”

“I saw,” laughs Hannibal. “Where did you learn such a thing?”

Will bites his lip in thought, and shakes his head. “I just tried to think of what made me feel better when I was afraid,” he answers, “and it was you, close to me. Even when I was angry at you, or afraid.”

Hannibal leans, to brush a kiss across Will’s brow, watching his little horse in the distance as she flicks her tail in lingering annoyance, an all too-familiar gesture so much like Will’s own tense irritation can be. “You are a wonder,” he tells Will, before glancing down to his foot, coated in mud. “Can you put weight on it?”

Will makes a sound, pained and little, but he does. Tests the way his balance shifts when he sets it down, winces at the sharp pain that strikes up his leg to his hip. He shakes his head when Hannibal offers to help, but smiles, a matter of pride for Will, not defiance. He hobbles to the house, through to the bathhouse to wash the mud from his bruised foot.

He can move all his toes, though the skin is red, split where the hoof was the sharpest against it. Will sends a soft prayer for his luck, murmurs his gratitude to the Gods that listen as he waits for Hannibal to join him.

Despite the want to follow after Will, to hoist him up and tend his temporary lameness as if the boy were a colt himself, he lets him go, watches as he strides bold with youthful pride down the hill towards the house. A few minutes more are given to afford Will his privacy - and not seem as overbearing as Hannibal would like to be - and spent petting Yelp before he catches movement in his peripheral.

“Are you so ready to be stepped on again?” laughs Hannibal, standing. “Go inside, foolish boy -”

But it’s an unfamiliar figure on the hill, as young as Will but strapped with sandals and and a satchel across his shoulder, pale green himation held in place by a glinting brooch that Hannibal knows - before the _keryx_ is close enough to see it - will bear on it the owl of Athens.

“What news?” he calls out, glancing towards the house to ensure the boy is not there watching.

“Not for me to know,” the messenger answers, regarding Hannibal ruefully as the general stands in place and waits for the boy to reach him, up the hill. He sorts through his bag and draws from it a parchment, sealed with wax. Hannibal skims a thumb across the indentation - a bull, bowed as if ready to charge.

“The _polemarch_.”

“He’s sent for the generals,” says the _keryx_. “He doesn’t require answer now -”

“ - which means we are expected to come,” finishes Hannibal. “Go. Tell Asherah to pay you for your time. She’ll be in the front of the house.”

The messenger goes without further delay, though with a narrow look of pleasure at the general’s parting words, and Hannibal seats himself on the hill.

The wind pulls. Colder than it was before, enough to chill Hannibal and bring his breath shallow and still even as Yelp lays heavy and warm against his side. He works his thumb beneath the wax and pops it free, the parchment scraping softly as it unrolls, echoed by the shudder of leaves in the trees around him.

\---

Will soaks his foot until the ache dissipates to a throb. Hot to cold to hot again. He is careful to bind it, both pleased and irritated that the next few days he may need to stay off it entirely, thus not training his horse when she is close to understanding. Regardless, he leaves the bathhouse with a slight limp, curious to see if perhaps Hannibal had started preparing a meal for them, or had remained with the animals in the fields.

He sees him sitting on the rise, Yelp half-smeared across his lap, but what catches Will’s attention, draws his wariness like a bow, is the way Hannibal does not respond to the dog at all. He does not touch him, does not chastise him, he does nothing at all, as though the heavy muzzle is not resting on his thigh, as though the little whines Will knows Yelp makes do not reach Hannibal at all.

Will frowns, gathers a cloak from Hannibal’s room to take to him, and makes his way slowly up the rise to join him sitting in the grass. Yelp, predictably, rearranges himself to fall entirely over Will’s lap on his back, demanding rubs and affection as his long tail whips the grass into submission beside them.

“What do you hear that I cannot?” Will asks Hannibal softly, a small smile on his face as he settles the cloak over his shoulders, finds that his touch is enough to break Hannibal of his stupor, turn his head. Hannibal lifts a hand to grasp Will’s fingers and keep them pressed against his shoulder.

“The fisherman was not as drunk as we had hoped,” muses Hannibal. He considers his words carefully, the confidentiality of them and the necessity for them to remain so lest Attica and her sisters be whipped into a panic.

And he considers the boy, whose fingers turn against his cheek when Hannibal rests against them.

“Persia has awoken. Troops amassing in the tens of thousands, by report,” Hannibal sighs against the boy’s palm. “What good was done at Sardis - at Marathon - has sufficed only to enrage Darius and his legions. Athens is but a fly biting the haunches of a bull.”

Will’s brows furrow, and although he keeps his hand gentle against Yelp’s belly, he does not pay the puppy heed, eyes only for Hannibal, for the worry he can sense within him. Once, such news had brought Hannibal’s anger forth against Will’s stubbornness, had forced his hand to make Will better. Now, they talk like men, soft-spoken, musing.

“Are we being called to war?” Will asks, cupping Hannibal’s cheek and turning him a little further to draw his thumb over the man’s lips. Hannibal chases the touch, a kiss pressed against the pad of his thumb that tastes still of horses, beneath the ash and water with which he cleaned himself.

“One imagines,” answers Hannibal, softly. “One hopes.”

Will draws a breath at the words, but Hannibal is quick to quiet him, leaning back to bring the boy down to his mouth, holding him by his robes. Though Will squeaks in protest he settles just as quickly, hand pressing to Hannibal’s face once more before he breaks the kiss to stand.

“You hope?” Will asks, rising from where he crouched over Yelp, who rolls clumsily to his feet to bound gracelessly down the hill.

“To route them early, on their own ground? To drive them back from their shores, overlooking our own? Yes,” responds Hannibal. “I hope - _pray_ \- to see the end of Darius and his snakes, and crush them beneath my heel.”

“You’re not going today!” Will says, voice louder than he had wanted it to be. He quiets himself, swallows, jaw working, before he shakes his head. “They cannot expect you to go today.”

A soft hand to Will’s hair to soothe him, but Hannibal finds only anger directed up at him. And not at him, past him, towards whoever it is that had written the scroll, towards the Persians that had forced the hand to write it at all.

“Not to war,” Hannibal assures him, though Will remains still, foot poised so he does not set his weight on it. “But I must go when I am summoned.”

“You are no man’s dog.”

“But I am the army’s general,” Hannibal counters, watching the anger write itself in flushes over Will’s face before the younger man takes a breath and looks at Hannibal again.

“Shall we take both horses, or just one?”

Hannibal strokes softly down Will’s cheek, curling his fingers beneath the boy’s chin. “You will stay,” he tells him, as gently as he can manage with the drumbeats of war thrumming distant in his heart, his limbs, his spirit. “This is not a task yet meant for you, nor one that you should volunteer to undertake.” He leans to kiss Will but catches only his cheek as Will turns his head aside, jerking it free of Hannibal’s touch. And so Hannibal releases him, with a sigh.

“It is a meeting with the _polemarch_ , Will, you would not be allowed.”

“I can go,” Will insists. “I can wait for you.”

“In the street? On your horse? It may take days, I don’t know what more information they have or what will be required -”

“Hannibal!” exclaims Will, a petulant declaration with little to follow it but hands tightened into fists and widened eyes.

“You will _stay_ ,” Hannibal snaps. “You will stay, and you will heed me and heed Asherah in my absence. Do you understand?”

A narrowing of his eyes, jaw set and entire body tense, before Will releases it with a sigh, turns his head away, appearing aloof, indifferent.

“Go then,” he murmurs, turning to make his way carefully down the hill towards Yelp, who stands at the bottom with his tail wagging and his tongue lolling in puppy joy. Will doesn’t look back at Hannibal, he knows the man will follow at his own pace, he knows his own dismissal of him was childish and disrespectful but he cannot ease the flame in his heart that burns with fear at the sound of the word _war_.

Will does not go to take his meal, he returns to his room, closes the door and nests amongst the hounds, all curled or wriggling in their sleep already. He stays huddled in bed until the heat of the animals becomes too much and Will’s foot aches with it. He stretches, pushes himself up on his elbows and sighs, watching the sky slowly turn to dusk beyond the window.

When there is a knock to his door, Will gets up to open it, presses himself without a word into Hannibal’s arms and says nothing, just times his heart to the older man’s and does not move away until a gentle hand to his hair pushes him to.

“Tend your foot,” Hannibal tells him, smelling sweetly of the baths and oils applied in Will’s absence as he sulked among the hounds. And yet there is no rancor in his voice, no anger - only a patient peace that he speaks softly against Will’s hair. “If you have need of something, Asherah can assist and advise you. Stay off it, and let the slaves tend the animals,” he murmurs, before adding with distant amusement, “as much as you are able to restrain yourself.”

He kisses him, gently, smoothing back his hair once more and rubbing the boy’s back. “Rest, and enjoy your time away from our lessons. Play with your dogs. Swim in the ocean. I will return as soon as I’m able.”

“By the time you do, I will fell you with a shield alone,” Will replies in Neuri, soft, still displeased, but a hint of humor there before he lifts his eyes to Hannibal again. “Please come back,” he adds, in Greek.

“How could I not?” asks Hannibal, a gentle amusement as he leans to catch Will’s lips softly beneath his own, fingers trailing his thigh in greeting and goodbye. “It is only a meeting, peacemaker. Only that.”

But while there is certainly an excitement to the man, some implacable energy the quickens his pulse with the promise of war, he has just as much softened in the look he gives to Will, fingers against his cheek for a moment more before he turns to go.

At the door he is wound into his crimson _chlamys_ , glittering gold laurels along its edge, and glances back to Will. “Learn something while I’m away.”

“Shall I learn better ways to please you?” snorts Will, a quiet amusement.

“Something you do not already know,” responds Hannibal, a faint smile lingering, before he is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Four days he slept on my porch." The boys laugh, Bryson shrugs, but there is a smile hidden beneath the aloof expression._
> 
> _"For what?" one of the boys asks. He looks younger but not by much, strong like Methodius but that seems to be his only asset. Bryson tilts his head at him._
> 
> _"For this face." More laughter, some hooting and pats on the back for an argument well won, if not entirely silly. Will looks among the group of them, six, in all, and wonders who they all were before they became gymnasts, and academics, and little soldiers._

Hannibal is all but plowed into his horse by the boy who rushes to greet him after two nights away. Strong arms and careful words console him, eager and afraid both, that war is still some far away. He doesn’t tell Will that it is inevitable. That they can expect it within the year if they are unfortunate, but that it will be longer than that if they are more unlucky. All the more time it will give Darius to assemble his legions. All the more time for him to prepare his fleets.

He simply tells Will that for now, they are still at peace, and takes the boy to bed to sleep alongside him, and lie awake in thought with Will’s breath coming slow and steady against his chest.

The next day, Will is woken early with a voice still itself rough with sleep and an empty bed, firm hands against him.

“Dress,” Hannibal instructs him. “We’re going to the _polis_.”

Met with a groan and thin shoulders drawn up against his face, Hannibal slaps a hand against the boy’s thigh.

“I am going to the market with Asherah, and if you do not rise, I will take your dogs with us and not return with them.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Will mumbles, sleepy, having slept fully and deeply with Hannibal at his side. He grins when he gets another slap for his trouble, curls up with a groan in a configuration he knows takes Hannibal’s breath for a moment before the older man leaves him to dress with another soft threat.

Will goes, despite wanting to do anything but, and dresses in his nice tunic and straps on his good sandals. If he is to accompany Hannibal out, he will not dishonor him with a shabby appearance.

There is a brief argument in the kitchen as Will tries to coax Hannibal to allow him to take a dog with him regardless - “Just not to sell” - and gets denied. Asherah calmly notes that a dog as a guard would not be amiss in a large _agora_ and Hannibal looks at her as though she has misplaced her usual witty logic. Will wonders at the grin he receives in turn from her but does not ask about it.

The relationship between Hannibal and his slave is curious, and Will finds himself, more often than not, entirely entertained watching them.

“Are your interests not worth protecting?” she asks in a tone of absent curiosity, refilling Hannibal’s cup for him.

“When I have you at my side?” he snorts. “No one would dare. Your ferocity outweighs even my hound, let alone the ones Will has claimed as his.”

She sighs, “I’m but a humble servant -” and doesn’t manage the rest before Hannibal barks a laugh.

“Far from a mere servant, and further still from humble.”

Another grin threatens to appear, narrowing her eyes before she goes on her way with a reminder to hurry. She hasn’t all day to wait, after all.

Though Hannibal offers - or more, strongly suggests - for Will to ride with him, in the front, preferably, with his chiton up around his hips, Will twists agile away from Hannibal’s hands and mounts another horse instead. He makes sure to catch Hannibal’s eyes as he adjusts himself in the saddle, fingers slipping against the hem of his tunic to ride it higher than necessary against his leg.

“You are terrors,” Hannibal tells Will and Asherah both as he settles in behind them and they set off towards Athen. “What fear should we hold towards Persia when there are such cruelties already within our borders?”

Asherah, wisely, says nothing, but her bearing takes on the appearance of pride that Will can see mirrored in Hannibal. It is a long ride to the _polis_ , and they don’t work the horses faster than a trot, content to take their time to reach one of the markets on the outskirts at leisure. It is perhaps halfway through their journey that Will brings his horse up to pace with Hannibal’s.

“You shame her with a saddle?” he comments, tilting his head towards Hannibal’s mare, who seems perfectly content with a saddle or without one. Will clicks his tongue, adjust how he sits in his own and draws the hem of his tunic higher in the process.

Hannibal’s attention - very decidedly - does not drift lower, but rather narrows on the boy at his side. “Can you ride yours yet without one?”

“I can,” Will responds, chin uplifted.

“And yet you do not.”

“He was already saddled,” answers Will, grin widening. “You went back for one.”

A hum of displeasure, and Hannibal shifts his weight enough to bring his horse close enough alongside Will’s that his leg is pressed against the boy’s. He reaches for him, snatching him around the shoulder and nearly dragging him from his horse with a laugh. “I have enough to contend with,” Hannibal mutters against the boy’s dusty hair, “without saddle sores. Although I may make your backside as tired as you wish mine to be if it suits you.”

“Empty threats until you follow through,” Will murmurs back, grinning when he’s released, flushed with both the loss of balance and his own challenge. He does not adjust his tunic where it has slipped up more, but keeps pace with Hannibal’s mare until they reach the market. When Hannibal looks at him again, Will is entirely put together, adjusted and well-presented, though the little smile gives away his genuine pleasure at being ‘shown’ in such a way, simple as it is.

They dismount, leading their horses to the low fence to tie them there while they make their purchases. Asherah leaves them quickly, contented to complete her weekly errands without the weight of two inexperienced companions, and Hannibal watches her go with a smile. 

She is known, here, at the _agora_. The stallholders calling out to her as she passes, many of whom she greets warmly, and lingers at their stalls without purchasing anything. One man passes her a pomegranate, and while she smiles and accepts the gift, it is clear she has no interest in him beyond a conversation.

Will watches, amused, before leaning gently against Hannibal, in a way that would appear accidental, not eager, in public.

“Do you wish to show me the market?” he asks.

“You know it as well as I,” Hannibal answers, a little chagrined, but no less pleased to be here and with this particular company. He doesn’t worry for Asherah, well-equipped to manage not only the purchases necessary for the house, but the household itself, and Hannibal entirely content to leave it in her hands. Still he watches, a moment more, as she arches a brow at a price offered on flour, and he hears her laugh ring out lightly as her haggling begins.

He turns back to regard the boy beside him, brushing the backs of his fingers against Will’s cheek. “Perhaps new garments for you - you’ve not had any in some time, and are fast outgrowing the ones you brought from home.”

It takes Will a moment to realize that Hannibal means his old home, the house of his father, and a beat more to smile at the thought that he now considers Hannibal’s home as his own. “Perhaps I’ll let you buy them for me,” he grins, “since I’m not paid for my stablework.”

A sigh, as Hannibal resists the urge to kiss the boy in so public a setting, unwilling to buck the social expectations of their standing as _erastes_ and _eromenos_. They are known - Hannibal by most, and Will for his father - and their status made clear by their visit to a symposium, but Hannibal knows all too well the Greeks’ insistence on mores and customs, and so merely smiles when Will turns lightly away from his touch and hoists his chin proudly.

Dutifully, Hannibal draws his coinpurse from his belt and yields a handful of _tetradrachma_ to his charge. “Go then,” he sighs, though his eyes crinkle with pleasure. “Buy something that pleases you.”

Another indifferent hum, and Will takes the offering with only a small smile directed to Hannibal, determined to have the man’s eyes on him if his hands cannot be, while they are here. He cannot deny, though, that he is growing out of his clothes. Though he cares for them well, he is taller, and the hem of his tunic - especially his smallest - sometimes sits too high to be appropriate even without Will’s teasing.

He makes his way into the market, careful to turn every few steps, as though admiring the stalls, to give Hannibal a view of him from every side, grasps the hem of his tunic as though in thought, adjusts his belt, bends to work the leather of his sandals. He still limps but not enough to hinder him, he uses the motion more to tilt his hips, and finds the game rather enjoyable when he turns to find Hannibal with his hand pressed to his lips before he deliberately turns away to seek out another part of the market on his own.

He finds the fabric stalls entirely beautiful, running his fingers over the colorful and textured textiles, enthralled by the patterns and hand-embroidery. He knows such things are too fine for him, not for his place in society, not for his age. But it does not stop him looking. He passes Asherah, already laden with goods, who merely smiles and sidesteps him when he tries to help.

“To the left, if you would like a tunic,” she tells him, “or the right if you wish to torment your master.”

Will grins, and to her amusement, turns left.

He can see Hannibal, further down from the clothing merchants at the stalls of armor beside. He places a fitting against his heel, regarding the armorer as he speaks, before lacing it to feel it move against his skin. A frown, shifting forward to test it, and the man selling the bronze ankle guards gestures enthusiastically at the result.

Hannibal is always in preparation, Will realizes, and knows instinctively that had they come to the market even before the missive from the _polemarch_ , Hannibal would still have been drawn to the armor, the weapons, to test them against his own and ensure he remains girded. In times of peace, he trains with such fervor, that for a moment Will wonders if the arrival of war is perhaps, in some strange way, a relief.

Their eyes meet at a distance, parted only by the passing of people between them, until Will suggests a soft smile and turns away again. He checks his pocket, feels the coins heavy there, and runs a soft, thin linen between his fingers before moving on to one a little thicker - an elegant drape but studier, less likely to wear holes in it after a single afternoon of training.

He raises his hand to catch the attention of the tailor but before he can, he hears an assembly of younger voices through the din of the _agora_. One, in particular, familiar from his schooling already nearly two years past, loud and laughing boisterously.

It has been a long time since Will has been around boys his age for more than an evening. Hannibal has never expressly forbidden Will from leaving his home, and although in the first few months Will had thought of nothing else, and had cursed his own inability to ride, he has since thought little of escape.

Even before his apprenticeship, Will was never a boy to be actively social with others. At certain times shy, most times finding others entirely not worth his attention. The few friends at school he did have, had found an _erastes_ before him.

Now he walks, with a gentle gesture to suggest he would be back, to the tailor, towards the voices and grins when he sees -

“Methodius.”

The boy has always been taller than Will, even in youth, and now he has grown more, faster than Will has, and towers over him still. He gives Will a brief once over before smiling, genuinely happy to see an old friend, and inviting Will into the small circle of boys gathered at the edge of the stalls.

“Will!” he chirps. Will comes closer, grasps hands with his friend. “I had put you down for dead.”

“Merely apprenticed," Will laughs, and Methodius whistles, eyes narrowing.

“The little boy got himself a man.”

“A general," Will corrects, to hooting laughter from the others, none in malice. It’s strange, to Will, to discuss these things with boys his age, he finds himself smiling wider, ducking his head as he steps closer into the group of boys, Methodius’ arm around his shoulder, holding him close against him.

“Never struck me as the fighting type,” Methodius grins.

“I could now,” retorts Will, to another boisterous round of laughter. “You took the physician, right?”

“He brought me enough gifts,” shrugs Methodius. “It isn’t terrible. So long as I stay at the gymnasium and keep winning races, he leaves me be. Or it might have been that every time he’s tried to have me I just lay limp and pray. Doesn’t do much for _eros_ when you have petitions to Aphrodite in your ear and loose thighs beneath your hands.”

Will feels his cheeks grow hot despite himself, skin tingling with the thought of Hannibal’s coarse but gentle hands against it, lip snared between his teeth to suppress a grin that threatens to appear.

“Good idea,” chimes in one of the other boys, with wild curly hair and a lean body. “Wish I were better at athletics.”

He introduces himself to Will as Bryson, the others each in turn where they rest near the fountain at the center of the little _agora_. Men look on them in passing, an array of beautiful boys seated on the marble, warming their legs in the sun.

"Four days he slept on my porch." The boys laugh, Bryson shrugs, but there is a smile hidden beneath the aloof expression. 

"For what?" one of the boys asks. He looks younger but not by much, strong like Methodius but that seems to be his only asset. Bryson tilts his head at him.

"For this face." More laughter, some hooting and pats on the back for an argument well won, if not entirely silly. Will looks among the group of them, six, in all, and wonders who they all were before they became gymnasts, and academics, and little soldiers.

"And only that," Methodius adds, suddenly, Bryson just grins.

"You should fear academia, my friend, you cannot outrun it, and then you will look like the fool who tried." He turns to Will. "Where does yours take you?"

Will feels his cheeks darken again. "We train at his home," he admits. "Swords and axes, the spear, the bow and arrow." Will feels their attention on him - the boy so like Methodius entirely jealous and trying to hide it, someone who wants to be a soldier as much as Will does not. "Horses, the care and breaking of them. Hounds..."

"Hounds? Does he take you hunting?"

Will laughs, "My pups are still too young to, but we will, I suppose."

"You have a few?"

Will straightens his shoulders, pride, entirely, in his pack, the fact that he had earned them all himself.

"Seven,” he says.

“ _Seven_?” exclaims Methodius.

“Big ones,” Will grins, tilting his chin up. “Their mother is as big as my horse was when she was born.”

Bryson whistles. “And a horse.”

“Have you not gotten any gifts?” asks another boy, sifting through the gravel with his bare feet, dust rising into the air.

The curly-haired boy twists his lips, a vague dismay. “Chickens. I live in Melite, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them. They live in the yard but -”

“Where is his house?” interrupts Methodius.

“It’s a farm,” Will responds, a little chagrined. “Outside of the _polis_.”

“Isn’t it very boring?” sighs the boy. “Out there with nothing to do. I can’t imagine being so far away from the gymnasium, the baths - the big _agora_. How do you get away from him?”

Will parts his lips to reply and finds he has nothing to say, knows not how to remain aloof about his relationship with his mentor when he genuinely enjoys Hannibal's company. He stays silent a moment more before directing attention away from himself again.

"Chickens?"

"I don't know." Bryson shakes his head, happy to be back in the conversation, having been rudely interrupted earlier. "Apparently some exotic breed from far away but... I don’t see the difference."

"Do you taste the difference?" Methodius asks, and Will finds himself laughing with the other boys again. He considers how lucky he is, with Hannibal, with the farm and the animals, the time he is given to himself, the fact that he genuinely enjoys baring himself to the man, enjoys feeling him between his thighs.

"Will." He blinks, turns to look at Bryson with an apologetic expression, lost in thought, still. "Does he allow you to study? Or is it just war?"

"History, philosophy, mathematics," Will lists, "languages..."

"Have you been to symposium?"

"We have." Will’s lips tilt in another genuine expression of pride, of pleasure, and he knows, in that moment, that Bryson understands, can relate to such a simple pleasure as enjoying the company you're given, chickens or no.

“That makes it worth it,” decides Methodius, to the agreement of the other boys. Too young to be invited on their own merit, children in the eyes of men, only as guests of their _erastes_ can they join in the drinking and debates, the feasting and philosophizing, and Will wonders for a moment what part of it interests each of them the most.

“We’re going soon,” Bryson adds with a devious grin. “If I can coerce him away from his studies.”

“What studies?”

“Sciences. It’s fascinating,” he admits. “I sat in on a lecture - did you know that there are four elements? And everything is made from them - earth, fire, water, and air - and -”

“Which ones are chickens made from?” snorts Methodius, preening pleased at the laughter he earns.

“I bet you go to good ones,” suggests the burly boy, who watches Will with envy still. “A general? He answers to Themistocles, then. Have you met him? Have you been to his home?”

Will blinks, and shakes his head. He knows the man’s name - there are none in Attica who do not, including the poorest among whom the man gained his support - but it did not occur to him that Hannibal is directly beneath the _archon_ , that it was to his home Hannibal had to ride to speak of war.

“I heard there’s a war,” Bryson adds, and Will feels himself freeze, fingers curled against the marble step beneath him. “Aristides is rivalling him not only for the archonship, but for a boy…”

His hands unclench, a sigh restrained only to a soft breath, and he listens as the boys gossip - about politics and personal lives, rumors they’ve wheeled out of their _erastes_ or conversations overheard in their homes, debates about athletes in the upcoming games, and not a word among them about Persia. Will listens, attentive, and holds back much of what he wishes to say, his status immediately apparent in being apprenticed to a general. Privvy to truths, not only secrets, to the inner workings of Athens and the greater scope of Greece. And all beneath the guidance of Hannibal, appreciation for his gentleness - in spite of all things - growing as the boys chatter.

“I’ve only let him have my thighs,” Methodius grins. “He wants more, but I won’t let him.”

"There's more?" Will asks, feeling his cheeks darken at the look he receives in return.

"Would you let him?" one of the boys, entirely freckled, asks, eyes wide. "Men of war are brutal, they don't know how to be anything else -"

"Has he had you?" Methodius interrupts, eyes on Will as Will’s cheeks heat further still, not in humiliation but its direct opposite, a quick reliving of every one thing they have done together, in bed, in the baths, wherever Hannibal could catch him, to press his hands beneath Will’s tunic and touch him -

"If you don't care for it, just lie there,” comes the painfully earnest advice. "He will sate himself eventually."

"But has he?"

Will swallows, nods, and finds it impossible to keep his smile from his face. Methodius snorts, but even that sound carries more envy with it than malice.

"I suppose were mine fit, a general, a _man_ , I may allow him more than sighs and rolling eyes too."

Bryson purses his lips in amusement but keeps his opinion to himself, just shares a look with Will that suggests he smells a lie in all of Methodius' loud words and preening. A pretense that neither he nor Will have to play up or play at all.

The conversation falls to secret things, though the boys have little care who hears them. Will indulges in listening, taking information in and storing it, sharing none of his experiences or opinions, not here, though he and Bryson occasionally pass glances and amuse themselves with unspoken understandings. Will turns his head, a feeling down his spine that is almost instinctive, and sees a familiar figure perhaps eight stalls away, regarding the group and Will within it in particular.

Will bites his lip, shifts, flicks his hair from his eyes, straightens his shoulders, curls his fingers, in a practiced, coy movement, against the hem of his tunic to draw it barely higher up, but enough.

A brow lifts as Hannibal catches the motion, taking in the array of boys around him with a vague amusement. Their look lingers long on each other before Will turns away first, as he should - as he wishes to - to ensure that Hannibal comes towards him.

And he does, long languid strides, though the man is amused to feel a distant pang of nerves as he comes nearer the band of beautiful boys, draped artistically across the marble fountain and each other. No other men have approached them - the haughty little things with their brazen smiles, entirely aware of their own worth to themselves and the men who desire their company - and so their eyes turn towards him as he dares approach. Lips part and grins spread, each boy ready to answer for their _erastes_ , wanted and untouchable, but it’s the would-be warrior who leans first to Will.

“Not him,” he asks, wide-eyed.

Will’s smile is demure, eyes down as Hannibal comes closer, striking, tall, almost frightening in his carriage. Will feels a swelling within his chest, his belly, of not only pride but a desperate need to claim him as Hannibal so often makes a point to claim Will. He bites his bottom lip softly as he smiles a little wider, before forcing indifference to his features.

" _Erastes_ ," Will greets. He allows but a passing glance to Hannibal, as he knows he must, a teasing in public that he can make up for later.

It’s certainly the most pleasant feeling of opposition Hannibal has encountered, as if he is surrounded, the clever youths all regarding him from the corners of their eyes, a feigned distraction, a play at coyness that all know and all perform.

Just as Hannibal must stand awaiting, rather than snare Will up from amongst them and sling the boy across his shoulder to hear him laugh. “Boy,” he calls him, fondly, rather than the nickname that might embarrass Will to his peers. “Have you spent your money yet?”

Will shakes his hair from his eyes again, an absent gesture, and turns towards the stall he had been pulled from earlier to gesture vaguely with one hand.

“I will have something tailored,” he informs him. “Perhaps two tunics. I will need boots.”

It’s haughty, proud, and Will feels a familiar tingling of sensation against his shoulders, as though Hannibal’s hand were there just brushing the skin. He knows he tempts, with the man’s imagination as vivid as his own, when it is made to be.

Methodius sputters back a laugh, but is unable to hide the raw pleasure he - and most of the other boys - take in watching this play out in front of them. Only Bryson resists, a wry smile shared with Will only.

“Boots,” Hannibal echoes, thoughts already at play to see the boy in the footwear of hunters and soldiers, enough to force him to draw a deep breath. “It will cost more _drachmas_ than I’ve given you.”

“It will,” agrees Will cheerfully, leaning back on his hands against the steps. He lets his legs sprawl, only just covered enough that Hannibal’s attention is drawn lower, to both their amusement.

“Where are you from?” asks Methodius. His eyes are narrowed a little, a challenging look.

“The north.”

“Where in the north?”

“Would you know if I told you?” Hannibal challenges mildly.

“I might,” snorts the boy, pushing a hand back over his cropped hair. “He says you’re a general.”

“I am.”

The boy who had responded with envy to Will’s talk of training watches Methodius with wide eyes, entirely too aware of who Hannibal is, entirely too awestruck to point out the other boy’s foolhardiness.

“How can that be?” laughs Methodius. “They don’t make generals of _metics_.”

“No,” Will agrees, tilting his head to regard Hannibal before turning to his peer. “They make them of men.”

There is a silence, then, among the boys, and Will can feel a warmth from Hannibal that seeps against his skin and brings a flush to his cheeks. He turns away only because he cannot keep his eyes from the man without a smile, a gentle reassurance before he can continue with his game.

“He is Neuri,” Will continues, delighting in educating Methodius where once the boy had done the same to him. “From the North. Do you know it?” Will’s eyes narrow in distinct pleasure when the boy refuses to reply, turns away instead. “A fierce people,” Will continues, perhaps for himself, perhaps for the others that now look between him and Hannibal not only with envy but with awe as well.

“Fierce enough,” agrees Hannibal placidly, “but for beautiful boys who empty their coinpurses. Show me how you intend to do so this time.” He has heard much worse, from men of stature and importance, that the boy’s words do little to rile him. Will’s words, however, flood hot beneath his skin, bolstered by his boy’s pride in him - a long time passed when Will himself hurtled those derisive words at him from across the baths.

Bryson stands when Will does, glancing towards the boy’s looming _erastes_ , and then back to him. “Maybe I can see your hounds sometime. I never get to go to the country,” he says, and adds with a wry smirk. “I can show you my chickens in return.”

Will smiles, bright and pleased, and sets his hand against Bryson’s shoulder in parting, squeezing it gently and nodding. “They would jump at the new company,” he tells him. For a moment, Will just looks at the other boys, chin lifted in youthful pride, smile widening just a little when his eyes pass over Methodius before he turns away from them all and leads Hannibal to the stall he had coveted earlier, selecting the linen he wants before stepping past to have his measurements taken, purse passed to Hannibal almost as an afterthought.

Will knows they will be watched until the boys disperse, and even then when they can be caught a glance of. It becomes a game, truly, to keep up appearances, to disregard Hannibal almost entirely as he feels the man dote on him without even a brush of his fingers against him. They pay for the clothes, told to return within the hour for them to be collected, and Will moves past Hannibal with a sigh, put upon, to seek out the boots he had merely mentioned for appearance’s sake, and now wants, having seen Hannibal’s reaction to the idea.

“Your words were bravely spoken, peacemaker,” Hannibal murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath is warm against Will’s hair, though the man resists the urge to kiss him - too fond a gesture for this place. Here, they are meant to frame a very particular idea, _desiring_ and _desired_ , rather than what they find themselves growing into instead.

And so Hannibal takes his distance again, inclining his head to the shoemaker. “The boy wishes to be a soldier,” Hannibal tells the man, no small amount of pride in his words, even as he adds, teasing, “Have you any small enough for him?”

They are just within eyesight of the band of boys all awaiting their own keepers, and Hannibal feels the passive judgment not only from them but from all in the market. Curiosity towards him, towards the boy so obviously his own, their relationship clear but Hannibal - always - a question, with his stature and his manner, his styling and his carriage.

Let them look, then, Hannibal decides, and accepts the boots offered by the shoemaker. Careful not to snare his chiton, he kneels against the dust and holds out a hand for Will’s foot.

Will can’t stop the way his eyes widen, the way his lips part at the blatant show of subservience. He knows his cheeks are dark now, flushed with humiliation on Hannibal’s behalf, and arousal that the man would do something like this, for him. He turns away, as though bored, and sets his foot into Hannibal’s hands, swallowing when he feels the man work the leather straps to remove his sandal, set that aside.

The boots feel entirely different, a heavier, thicker support against his ankle and all the way up his calf. He can feel Hannibal slide his fingers hot over every inch of them, testing, he supposes, to the observer, the quality of the leather, the way it will bend against Will’s skin. But all Will can feel is the tickling of Hannibal’s fingers just behind his knee, lower still, the backs of his fingers skimming the delicate skin there.

He obediently sets the clean sole of his new shoe to Hannibal’s knee as the man begins to lace the boot for him, deliberate and careful, touching warm skin at every opportunity, teasing against Will’s knee as he works the knot carefully done, making sure no lace falls past for Will to trip, taking his time to do so and sending Will’s heart hammering against his chest.

Hannibal sets Will’s foot to the floor and looks up, smiling, eyes narrowed, as he holds his hand out for the boy’s other foot, and, swallowing, Will obeys.

To Hannibal’s distant amusement, they draw less looks now than they did before, embodying the roles expected of them, and no small amount of delight in doing so. Guiding Will’s foot into the boot to rest against his knee again, he presses the leather around his calf with both hands. From his ankle upward, higher to the back of his knee, and Hannibal turns his eyes up not to peek beneath the boy’s chiton - though the temptation is a powerful one - to simply hold his gaze instead.

Though others might think what they will, they know the truth of it as Hannibal laces carefully through the boots, tugging them secure but not too snug. There is no debasement in this, no humiliation between them - it is a quiet worship, a gentle and genuine adoration that comes across in every stroke of a thumb against Will’s leg, the soft squeeze as he lowers Will’s foot to the ground.

Slowly, he stands, adjusting the plain blue _chlamys_ he wears today - rather than the red standard of his office - to ensure his marks are covered, and studies the boy with earnest pleasure.

“A soldier in the making.”

Will’s breath shivers from him, as he keeps his eyes on Hannibal and him alone. He sets his feet, in one of the starting forms that Hannibal had taught him, shifts, bends his foot, rotates it to feel the way the boot will move with him, how he will have to adjust his own movements to compensate.

“I want them,” he states, still the act, but beneath, still the boy, childishly delighted at playing the soldier, in knowing that he can do even a little of what a soldier does, to the level that makes Hannibal proud of him. “Please,” he adds, smiles when Hannibal ducks his head and moves to pay, listening to the stallholder explain exactly how good the leather is, how supple, how oil will only extend its life, how the boots will survive years and years and strenuous activity as the young boy grows.

Hannibal bundles Will’s sandals together, holds them as they make their way back to the first stall they stopped at, Will’s shoulders straighter, now, his eyes hooded and proud as he catches the eye on Methodius, still waiting for his physician to collect him. The older boy shakes his head, and it’s enough for Will, a pride in him that he cannot hide and doesn’t, knowing that Hannibal is his own, as much as he is Hannibal’s.

The tunics are presented, folded neatly and beautifully sewn, and Will takes them carefully as Hannibal pays for them, too. An extraordinary amount of money that makes Will blush, merely to outfit him, merely to play a role society demands.

They make their way to the horses, after, finding Asherah already there, tying down saddlebags to Will’s mount, seemingly unaware of the fact that Will would need to ride him home.

“I bought the food that will last us the month,” she informs Hannibal as her fingers work another deft knot into place. “I need the horse to carry it, mine cannot bear the burden of this and the usual purchases.”

Hannibal grins openly, now, free from the attention of the others in the market. Will’s chitons are taken from him, sandals wrapped inside, and tossed to Asherah who catches them without missing a beat. She squints a moment, before wedging the fine cloth between the beans and turnips, and settling the bag of salt atop it.

Will parts his lips to protest the treatment of his new clothes, but only a squeak manages out as Hannibal snares him around his slight waist, and slings the boy up onto his horse.

“You’ll ride with me then,” he smiles, tremendously pleased as he mounts his mare and settles in behind Will, his broad thighs pressed tight against Will’s legs.

“Maybe I wanted to ride with Asherah,” Will responds, watching Hannibal over his shoulder. The man presses his hand against Will’s throat, sliding it high enough to cup his chin and tilt back his head, and finally press his mouth to Will’s own.

“Do you truly?”

Will’s lips part on a sigh, eyes barely open as he slowly works his tongue against his bottom lip and envelopes it with his top lip with a soft sound. He says nothing, just shakes his head gently, opens his eyes to regard Hannibal as he’s held, upside down and smiling wide in pleasure, anticipating the ride home.

Ahead, Asherah mounts her own horse, murmurs something to Will’s in a language Will doesn’t speak and he follows, entirely tamed to her hand.

“If I go at your pace we will be home by supper without any food on the table,” she calls over her shoulder, tone feigning upset and displeasure when her smile - turned back towards them - is mischievous and delighted.

“Ride ahead,” Hannibal tells her, almost permissive if his eyes were not focused entirely on the boy almost in his lap.

A whistle, much like how Will calls his horse, and Asherah leaves them behind, a quick trot to get both horses up to pace before she settles into a more comfortable speed. Hannibal merely tightens his legs around his mare to have her walk behind, hand releasing Will’s throat to stroke down his front, down his chest and lower to settle against his inner thigh.

Will swallows, shivers against Hannibal before giving the man his weight. “Ampelios looked at you like he had just met a God from a scroll,” he murmurs, remembering the awe with which the boy had looked on Will’s master, smiling wider, in pride and pleasure. “He probably cannot believe, still, that you are mine. That you take me home.”

“A feeling I share,” Hannibal responds, pleased by the praise and by Will’s words, both. He watches ahead for a moment more, ensuring they are out of earshot before slipping his hand a little higher, to rest against the warm crevice where Will’s thigh meets his groin. Firm lips press to the curve of Will’s neck, tilting his head aside to bare more of his soft skin, to taste the boy from whom he had so restrained himself all day.

“Little does he realize,” the man murmurs with amusement, “how hard you work to earn my bed. Or rather, to earn the dogs that clutter your own and send you to mine instead.”

The boy’s laugh fills Hannibal and he presses the reins to Will’s hand instead of his own, to free it and push Will back against him.

“What did you speak of, with the other boys? Did you compare notes with them, weigh your gifts against theirs?”

Will laughs, a breathless thing, and curls his hands in the reins to keep them from pressing against Hannibal’s hand, from pushing it closer to where he aches for it to be, to touch.

“It was a symposium in itself,” he murmurs. “Philosophy and current events, gossip and inappropriate topics for polite conversation.” He thinks of the boys, their amusement in discussing what more one could do than offer your _erastes_ your thighs, remembers his own ignorance on the matter, the question he had asked that had never been cleared up. He knows he’s blushing, turns back enough to see Hannibal again.

“They spoke of gymnasium and of academia. Science and history. Study and practice.” Will shifts back, adjusting how he sits in the saddle by deliberately pressing close against Hannibal with a soft sigh. “Made me realize how happy I am training and working and learning at home.”

He does not add ‘Hannibal’s’ home, he does not correct himself. Instead he stretches his neck, one way, then another, shifts a little more.

Hannibal hums, a low vibration through the boy’s back, adjusting himself in the saddle to accommodate Will’s wriggling, an attempt - however futile - keep his body’s response to it from pressing into the boy’s back.

“Do you wish to go to the city more?” he offers, an allowance that was - during their first months togethers - summarily restricted from him. “I am glad to be seen alongside you, to watch you work your wiles.”

His hand spreads across Will’s belly, and curls against to squeeze against the softness there, tightening daily with the muscles developed from his training, his riding, his chores.

“Although,” Hannibal adds, “it is a tiresome thing to be resistant to touching you. I was near to slinging you over my shoulder to pry you from the pack of them, and let the _agora_ see in turn what I get to take home with me.”

“You went to your knees for me already,” Will replies, pleased, happy to hold the reins loose as they ride, a slow pace, the motion of the horse beneath them pressing them closer, apart, a friction that becomes almost maddening between them and Will bites his lip.

“Would you have?” he asks, amused. “In my short tunic and new boots? Slung me over your shoulder and taken me away?”

The thought brings a shiver up Will’s spine, straightens it up against Hannibal’s chest as he slips his thighs wider open in invitation, in gentle silent demand. He thinks of how he would have been held, head down and hair swinging, blushing furiously as he hoped his tunic would not be riding up too high, and knowing, feeling, that it would have, deliberately, regardless.

He makes a sound, a soft little moan, and swallows another down, keeping his eyes forward as his cheeks burn.

Allowing his hips to move with the movements of the horse beneath them, Hannibal presses forward against Will’s backside to rub against him where he sits, giving up the fight to conceal his hardening length and instead humming pleased as Will responds with another sigh.

“Had it not been out of custom,” Hannibal answers, “I most certainly would have. Let the other _erastes_ see you in your glory, knowing you have only given yourself to me despite their pursuits.”

Beneath the fabric that lays across Will’s lap, Hannibal works his hand between Will’s legs, palming him decisively, fingers curling to wrap around the boy and tug once, softly.

“Had we been amongst my own people,” he muses, “I might have simply carried you off to the side of a stall and had you. I imagine that would have drawn comment here, though.”

Will makes a high noise of pleasure and bites his lip harder, fingers twisting the leather reins between them to give his hands something to do. He sighs, lips parted, and rocks his hips forward against the hand on him.

“Comment and envy,” Will murmurs, smiling. “Envy from the boys, seeing you as you are, the ink against your skin, the way you snarl your teeth in pleasure…” Will’s breathing hitches a little and he turns, enough to nuzzle softly against Hannibal as he holds him, continues to stroke. “From the men… who would wonder how you can make me call your name so loudly… keenly… oh -”

Will laughs, a delighted sound, and squirms back against Hannibal some more, cheeks flushed and knuckles white around the reins.

“We are so far from home,” he complains.

It had occurred to Hannibal, though it feels long passed now, that their time together could have been one of utter tedium, and Will’s words now confirm how unusual their pairing is. That Hannibal did not merely force himself on the unwilling boy, his by rights to take, and that Will does not simply tolerate his touch when he tires of resisting it outright. And a nearness now that is not only physical, but affectionate, a fond companionability that surprises Hannibal in how entirely he enjoys it.

“Very far, still,” Hannibal assents, glancing up the dusty road ahead of them, where Asherah has put enough strides between them that he can no longer see her there. Another glance behind, the road empty now that the sun has begun to set, and all around them fields of crops and stately tall cypress trees, rising up to rocky hills and coarse shrubs of juniper.

Releasing his hold of the boy enough to take the reins from him, Hannibal steers his horse carefully from the road into the grasses, slipping off from behind Will without explanation. He loops the lead over a gnarled olive branch and ties it off, before catching Will around the waist to bring the boy down to him, against him. A firm nuzzle is pressed to the boy’s throat when Will loops his legs around Hannibal’s hips with a laugh, carried into the field towards a copse of trees.

“I am not a patient man,” Hannibal offers as explanation.

“Barbarian,” Will murmurs against him but it is entirely fond, entirely adoring, as he presses closer, impatient enough to not care that he was not brought up to be this wanton, to be this _hungry_ for someone.

He pulls back to kiss against Hannibal’s throat, down to his shoulder through the fabric, wanting it gone, wanting to taste Hannibal’s skin, the ink beneath. He shivers, blushing, wondering, again, what “more” the boys had spoken of, knowing that were Hannibal to ask it of him, he would acquiesce without a fight.

Part of him wants to know, wants to surprise the man by asking him, instead. Perhaps if they go to market again he will ask Bryson, perhaps he will be the only one to tell him without ridicule or judgement.

For now, Will contents himself with keeping his laughter quiet as Hannibal settles his hands under Will’s thighs to hold him up, fingers skimming ticklish and wonderful against the sensitive skin behind his balls.

Lips curled in pleasure at the boy’s remark, at the feel of his abandon, Hannibal feels soft grass beneath his toes and lowers the boy and himself with. He pities the others - the men and the boys - who know only the base pleasure of this, though certainly Hannibal himself is not without appreciation for it. But with Will it is more, so much more than simply trading favors and knowledge for release grudgingly granted, so much more than a business agreement.

“You were the most beautiful of them all,” Hannibal tells him, his chest so full of praise and pride that it’s almost painful when their eyes meet. “The brightest, the most clever.” He skims a hand along the back of Will’s thigh, lifting it to wrap over his waist and bringing their hips to meet, lengths brushing hard against the other. “And you will be the strongest of them. The fiercest. I am certain of it.”

The kiss they share beneath the fragrant cyprus trees is as tender as Hannibal’s hands are hard, laying between Will’s thighs now rather than against them, their bodies close enough that he can feel the boy’s heart against his chest.

Hannibal does not resist when Will’s hands find the pin of his tunic to let it fall from his shoulder, when he loosens the knot of the cloak worn above it to bare Hannibal’s chest. Slender fingers splay through the hair there, across the tattoos Will loves so much, and Hannibal rumbles a low sigh before bringing his lips against Will’s once more.

“Because I’m your boy.” Will mumbles against him, smiling, drawing light nails over Hannibal’s scalp, catching in the coarse braided hair, down his chest. He keeps his eyes closed, for the moment, enjoying discovering and memorizing Hannibal against him.

Will thinks of how much he had feared this, how strongly he had fought against it, resisted both the greeting and courtship, resisted the company and the pleasure of it. He thinks of how many months they had wasted, both too stubborn to just bend, just once, to the other, until both just did.

It will be pitch black by the time they return to the road, Will thinks, and blushes at the thought. A man and his boy, on the side of the road enjoying carnal pleasure that neither have the patience to wait for, to get to bed and home and indoors for. Will arches his back, fabric slipping to bare him further to the cooling evening air, Hannibal’s hands large and rough instantly up to skim over the skin, to touch and press and hold Will close, fingers digging in just gently enough to spread him and draw a soft noise from Will’s throat.

“Would you have slept on my doorstep?” Will asks suddenly, remembering, laughing. “Had you courted me properly?”

Hannibal runs his palms down Will’s sides, squeezing the slender hips that roll without thought against his own. The sun sends its last desperate light into the sky behind the boy, illuminating his skin as if by crimson torchlight, luminous in his tousled hair, bright in his eyes.

“Had I known that this is what it would earn me for my trouble?” muses the man, before reaching to grasp Will’s hair and bend the boy to him again. “For as long as needed until you would have me.”

Will’s legs spread wider over Hannibal’s hips where he sits astride him, furtive rubbing with skin and linen caught between them, lips tangling together again and again as Will’s fingers rake pale pink lines down Hannibal’s chest and a sweet little sound escapes the arch of his throat.

“But who could have known,” Hannibal asks, “when you were so slanderous of me in the baths?” A grin, and Hannibal catches Will’s bottom lip between his teeth to nibble and suck against. He lowers a hand, one still twisted into Will’s hair, to grasp them both where they press hard together and stroke them quickly together.

Will moans, stifles the sound with a bitten lip and ducked head, out in the world and not at home, now, to have his voice carry. He does whimper, though, soft and needy against Hannibal’s skin, before parting his lips to bite against it, a sharp little reminder.

“And you so ardently against a pupil,” Will reminds him, thinks of that day often, of how little of Hannibal he had allowed himself to see, his pride and ignorance blinding him from the man he sees now, the gentleness and knowledge that underlies the crude exterior that Hannibal works so hard to keep, to maintain and to remind others of.

Another sound is pulled from Will, another, and he pants hot breaths against Hannibal’s throat as he digs his toes into the ground and rocks harder against him. Bared, with his tunic yanked up, leather dark against his legs, new and ready from training and battle. Playing a soldier. Will grins and shivers, stilling his motions for just a moment, as much willpower as he can afford before he loses it entirely.

“On my knees or on my back, general?” he purrs.

Hannibal answers with a growl, savagely pleased by the title spoken so sweetly from the lips against which Hannibal presses his own, just as needy as Will now, just as wanton.

“Your side,” he manages, before forcing himself to release Will enough to move the boy himself. He turns them both, Will to the earth beneath them, Hannibal lit by the fading sunlight above, and brings Will’s legs around to turn his hips aside and press his thighs together. He lets his hand linger lower, across the leather both sturdy and soft, stretched beautifully around his slender calves.

A title he has earned, through cleverness and brutality, a title he has heard shouted and spoken a thousand times and yet never one that has felt so fulfilling as when so warmly spoken by Will.

“Again,” insists Hannibal with a grin, leaning low to kiss Will and to work his way between his legs, moaning low against his mouth.

Will trembles, arching back, one hand out in front of him, snaring the grass, the other back, to grasp Hannibal’s hair, to hold on, turn back and part his lips on sounds of pleasure as Hannibal begins a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“General,” he breathes, grinning, bites his lip and says it again, over and over until the word is interspersed with pleas and demands for more, until Hannibal drops his hand to stroke between Will’s legs and Will loses all coherence entirely.

The sun has set, now, the dusk short lived as they writhe together, as Will bends and twists and draws sounds from Hannibal as well, just as powerful, here, more so than Hannibal, even, in controlling the pressure, the speed, their need for it.

Will feels his release take him and cries out, voice strained in pleasure, in need to make this last longer than it had, in need to have it again, when they get home, delighting in Hannibal’s growl regarding Will’s energy, delighting in the fact that despite anything Hannibal would hold Will against him, draw his fingers over Will’s hot skin, would allow the boy to rub against him and writhe and tempt him.

Hannibal is freer here than in the house, it seems, something innate and animalistic in the man let loose with only the cool evening air and rustling trees to surround them. His lips curl back over his teeth, bared in a grin towards the boy who trembles with delight beneath him. Driving hard enough between Will’s legs to thrust him into the soil, Hannibal lowers a hand to his shoulder to hold him there, to keep him near, and brings the other - still dripping - to his lips.

He draws his tongue across his fingers, eyes closing with a shiver as he tastes the boy there, salty and warm, a base pleasure denied to himself too many times - for propriety, for customs not his own, now rejected once outside the confines of house and city. Every drop is savored, a roiling sensation coiling fierce inside him to have this, now, too, unclaimed from this boy by any other.

Will watches from the corner of his eye, lips parted, body trembling and sticky with sweat, heart pounding in his ears as Hannibal continues to rut, the friction less, now, between them, but not less pleasurable for either. Will drops his hand to press between his legs, rubbing against the head of Hannibal’s cock as it thrusts between his thighs enough to touch.

He bites his lip, releases it, finding himself utterly fascinated by such an animalistic action, such a crude and worshipful gesture. It delights him the things he could learn, would, that the boys at the market had not thought to talk about, had not known to…

“How do I taste?” he asks softly, genuinely curious, shivering and squeezing his thighs together tighter.

The question, the pressure of Will’s legs closing harder around him, the feel of his fingertips teasing, all enough to rip a harsh groan - louder than he ever is at home - from the man as he curls over Will and catches himself with a hand clutching the ground beneath him. He finishes hard, spattering hot against Will’s hand, his belly, the earth itself, nearly trembling from the force of it.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal finally answers, when what’s left of the breath that snared in his throat releases all at once. He remains where he is a moment more, weakened movements of his hips still rocking against Will until he starts to soften, and - careful not to collapse atop the boy - he leans low to kiss him, a messy, unsteady thing.

Drawing himself away just enough to roll to his back beside Will, Hannibal rumbles another long sigh, arm draped across his brow, bare chest rising and falling slower and slower still as he catches his breath again and lets the night air settle cool against his sweat.

Will draws up his leg, the other languid against the ground, and watches the stars above them, feeling his cheeks flush, his smile widen as he considers what they had just done, together, here, and how good it had felt. He is reluctant to clean his hand against his tunic, against the grass, a curiosity burning within him that he can’t resist.

He brings wet fingertips to his lips, parts them to taste, just a gentle lick. It’s unusual, salty and sharp, almost bitter, but far from what Will had anticipated it would taste like. Pensively he sucks one finger between his lips, licks it clean, brings his hand to bunch in his chiton after, to clean the rest from his palm before turning to find Hannibal watching him.

Entirely content, and certainly no stranger to sleeping outside, Hannibal appears ready to spend the night there, beneath the cyprus and the stars, beneath Will who watches down at him. A brow lifts, and Hannibal asks with a crooked smile, “And?”

Will’s lips quirk, and he pushes himself to stand, adjusting his tunic as much as he can over the mess, laughing, knowing that when they got home they would bathe and collapse into bed - if he could coax Hannibal up from the grass.

“I would need another taste in order to make a fair judgement,” he replies, coy, grinning, before he moves to stand with feet on either side of Hannibal and holds out his hand for the man to take. He’s nearly yanked back to the ground and laughs again. “If you do not go with me you will be walking home, general.”

Another tug, but Will keeps his feet beneath him and Hannibal’s smile breaks into a grin. “A general in the making,” he mutters. “Driving mercilessly onward.”

Grudgingly, Hannibal rises, sorting his skewed clothing back into place, seeking out the pins to hold his chiton from his shoulders again. A narrow look at the garments, made to be loose and free-flowing in the Grecian heat but a burden now when the man would rather just go bare.

He’s no sooner settled then he ducks to snatch Will up from his feet, carrying the boy across his arms. Will laughs and clings to him, feet dangling, and it occurs to Hannibal that even so soon as next year, he may be too large to lift so comfortably, too lean and wiry in his strength, as he’s becoming week by week. But for now, he is small, still, and lovely, made more so by the blush that reddens his cheeks as Hannibal helps him back astride the mare.

“Come, then,” the man sighs, loosening her reins from the olive tree and mounting up behind Will once more. “Before the farmer finds us here, or worse yet, Asherah returns.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He nearly falls in his scramble to get to the door, dogs following in the same graceless and rather cacophonous manner before Will banishes them outside. Asherah clears her throat and adjusts the fall of his tunic over his shoulder before sending him on his way to greet the general and his guest. Perhaps it will be another of his brothers from war, and Will wonders if he will be allowed to take a meal with them, allowed to listen if not contribute his words and ideas.
> 
> He finds himself both nervous and excited, smile wide as he leaves the house and becoming suddenly entirely mechanical on his lips when he regards their guest.

Will returns with the pack to find breakfast set for him alone, fresh warm bread and home-made cheese, a cup of milk and berries. He finds it only mildly disappointing to eat alone, but more and more - since the messenger - has he found Hannibal absent in the mornings. 

He goes to the polis more, he sends letters, long and detailed. Will wonders if he still writes to his father, and what he tells him. He can only imagine - and does, sometimes, caught in the whimsy of it - his father’s face to see him so much taller, stronger, surrounded by his hounds. He has taken, of late, to working his hair back as Hannibal does, though it is not nearly long enough for more than to be bound in a small gathering at the base of his neck.

He does, now, chewing thoughtfully as he regards a note from Hannibal with new characters he has not yet learned in Neuri. Most, he knows, and he works as he had the very first time in deciphering the page left for him. It is easier, now, knowing the sounds of the words, their rules and meanings, to be able to read the note to himself and understand that he is to expect Hannibal home before the sun reaches its apex, and with a guest.

So, Will supposes, he should bathe.

The water is chill, not enough time to stoke a fire to heat it on such short notice, but it’s wonderfully warm in the midsummer morning, and the water from the hydria pours brisk against his bare skin. Laughing as a shiver tickles up his back, Will pushes his hair back from his face to scrape himself clean and rub himself with ash to scrub off what the strigil missed. He chats amicably with the slave who assists him in pouring the water across his bare skin, discussing all matters of the farm at length, particularly the animals. One of the horses may be with foal, Will discovers, pleased at the thought of another spindly-legged little baby out in the fields, and pleased more so by the thought of telling Hannibal.

He takes time to apply oils, usually skipped in favor of returning to study or training, by this time slicked against his body, rubbed into it to give him a golden glow, and the slave attending him suggests using some of the perfumed ones as well. Yelp snuffles against Will’s hand, the boy ducking to let him scent out the fragrant flowers and herbs within the oil, and in exchange the dog sneezes roughly, Will just able to clear his hand in time and finish applying it to himself.

Yelp and three of the others bump against his bare legs as he pads back into the house, each barreling through his bedroom door ahead of him and draping their big, coarse-furred bodies across his bed, tails swinging into each other and ears perked towards Will. He fingers past the well-worn chiton he normally wears to tend his chores and train in the field, instead seeking out the finer linen tunic that Hannibal bought for him at market, laying it carefully against his freshly-scrubbed skin.

There is time enough still for Will to avoid rough-housing with the dogs - though with splayed paws and tails strong enough to disrupt the stools they bump into, it’s very tempting. He tells them to behave, that he’s just had a bath and there’s guests coming, and gathers up the note from Hannibal to take into the study, and work through the less familiar words on it.

Content to remain so, until he hears the shrill whinny of a horse out front - Hannibal’s mare, calling to Will’s yearling.

He nearly falls in his scramble to get to the door, dogs following in the same graceless and rather cacophonous manner before Will banishes them outside. Asherah clears her throat and adjusts the fall of his tunic over his shoulder before sending him on his way to greet the general and his guest. Perhaps it will be another of his brothers from war, and Will wonders if he will be allowed to take a meal with them, allowed to listen if not contribute his words and ideas.

He finds himself both nervous and excited, smile wide as he leaves the house and finding it suddenly entirely mechanical on his lips when he regards their guest.

Dark, curled hair and beautifully crafted cloth, embroidered and gilded. Her horse is taller, one of the graceful Grecian things as opposed to Hannibal's more stocky mounts. Berenike takes in the sprawling home, the fields, the sound of the sea with a smile Will finds to be surprisingly genuine. He had expected an upturned nose and a haughty look.

In truth, he had not expected her here at all. Had hoped the promise had been a polite parting on Hannibal's part. He tries to ignore the sinking in his stomach, knowing what her presence here means, and instead meets Hannibal’s eyes when the man steps up to greet him, fingers beneath his chin, hand between his legs in a way that sends Will’s pulse quick.

"I did not expect this to be our guest,” he says very quietly, enough, only, for Hannibal to hear as the slaves come to help Berenike from her horse, to lead both mounts away to the stables.

It is not the reaction for which Hannibal had hoped. Days and days spent there and away, meeting with the polemarch and the strategoi, pouring over scraps of information, still too much of it, still too definitive. Torn entirely between the drumbeats of war thrumming unmistakable beneath his skin and his desire to be home again, between the polis and the farm, and Hannibal draws away a little when Will turns from him to watch Berenike and the slaves pass by.

Hannibal lingers, near enough to kiss but met now with the boy’s cheek, aware of the tension in his leg, up his body, where Hannibal’s fingers press. And so he withdraws them, adjusts himself and his expression to sweep away the disappointment into a cool neutrality. “It is in your father’s expectation and the expectation of Athens that I arrange for tutors whose knowledge in certain realms exceeds my own.” Carrying his himation higher, fine-stitched golden laurels glinting in the afternoon sun across the crimson fabric, Hannibal steps past the boy, and towards the house. “You will be grateful that she came out here to meet with you, and treat her with more respect than you treat me.”

Will frowns, brows drawn as he tries to imagine what he could possibly learn from this woman. She has her work, her status, and so does he, but their worlds are not meant to coincide. Exist in parallel, perhaps, but never together. He swallows, cheeks dark with upset, with having snubbed Hannibal with his childish displeasure. He seeks to catch him before he enters the house after their guest, ducks his head and leans it against Hannibal’s chest in a gentle apology.

"I was unprepared,” he murmurs, turns to nuzzle Hannibal before him, then stepping back. "I had expected you home with a brother, not a friend." He pushes the word through as neutrally as he can and swallows, waiting for Hannibal to explain the reason for her being here.

"I -" he bites his lip, "I could go, with the dogs... take a horse and ride along the beach. It would take time, I would take them to the cliffs and back." Will resolutely keeps his eyes on Hannibal as he speaks, earnestness overriding the sadness cooling him at the thought of stepping aside.

Enthusiasm waned to a quiet exhaustion, Hannibal does not yet find himself able to return the boy’s affections, a lingering irritation stern in his jaw, even as he forces his voice to soften. “Too deafened by your own envy to have heard me, I imagine,” he intones. “She is here to meet with you, to act as your teacher in my stead. I have no interest in her realm - social pursuits and symposiums. I’ve no skill for it.”

He lifts Will’s chin to hold their eyes meeting, no more touch than that. “But with her you will hone your own charm, your wit, as you hone your weaponry with me. You must learn to prevent yourself from being cut with words, as well as swords.”

With no more to be said on it, no room left for argument or discussion, Hannibal drops his hand and turns to make his way inside. “If you are rude to her, Will, you will be sent back to your father on the fastest horse I have.”

With a sigh, Will allows himself three breaths before following Hannibal into the house. Within, Asherah has set the table beautifully for a light meal, room enough for all of them to comfortably sit and speak, were all of them to stay. He watches Hannibal exchange a few words with his slave and she goes on her way, carrying his heavy cloak to hang up.

As Hannibal takes a seat, Will wonders if he is expected to sit in his lap as he had when last they hosted company. But the tension within the man, the slight at being so poorly greeted is palpable, and Will does not attempt to sway the man now. He sits on his own.

"It is an honor," he tells their guest with a smile, a ducking of his head, "to meet you again. I had thought you had forgotten about us."

If Berenike can sense the discord, she gives no show of it, drawing in a deep breath. “How could I? Though all the promises of appearing in my dreams, admittedly, came to very little,” she remarks. “Best take it up with the Oneiroi. They’ve been lazing on the job, delivering me visions of sea and countryside rather than of you.”

Hannibal’s smile widens a little, as does hers as she lets out a laugh. “Not so wrong then after all,” she considers. Dark eyes settle on Will, a smile gathered still beneath her eyes though it hardly touches her lips, conveying all the sense of a keen intelligence that can be readily stoked or tempered depending on the company.

“And how have you been? The general talks of you at length, but always in praise, and there’s hardly any real fun in that,” she teases.

Will blinks, genuine surprise, before offering a smile in return, small but not entirely put upon.

"Perhaps he wishes not to exhaust you with tales of repeated mischief and disobedience,” he says carefully, finds she is still smiling, still amused. "I have been well," he admits. “The general is a very capable and gifted teacher. Our lessons both on the page and in the field keep me entirely entranced. I have learned a lot from him."

He hopes Hannibal hears the pride within his words, the genuine love of the learning they do share together, of Hannibal’s unconventional methods - on occasion - of teaching.

"And yourself?" he asks, polite, nervous. Unaware of how one speaks to a woman of her stature and birth. Perhaps this she will teach him.

Berenike seems pleased, but Will imagines that she always does, taking the situation in stride, whatever it might be, and with a good-natured friendliness and a sharp mind turning it to her advantage. “Always well,” she assures Will, as Hannibal eats, watching her. “I am consistently comfortable and cared-for, and by men of my own choosing, and in that, always, I could not want for more.”

A pause, and a rather rakish grin catches the corner of her mouth and widens Hannibal’s eyes a little. “Although of course, I always do.”

Careful always to excuse herself for gossip, a wholly disingenuous apology, she regales them both with her own version of Athens, seen from a perspective that Hannibal can only truly imagine and wonder upon. Spending her life amongst archons and artists, philosophers and poets, scientists and soldiers, she moves with a freedom disallowed to any other woman in Athenian society, the result of her particular cleverness, her resounding charm, and her other, here unmentioned, personal skills. This too, Hannibal can only imagine, and he does, at great length.

“Your employer,” she intones, breaking Hannibal’s reverie with a look so entirely knowing it’s as if his thoughts were laid bare on the table, and as he clears his throat her smile broadens.

“I serve the city herself,” Hannibal responds.

“You serve the man who serves the city,” she corrects brightly. “Did you know that man is trying to take a boy as well?”

“Themistocles? He said nothing of it.” Hannibal arches a brow.

“In truth, he never had an interest, until this one in particular - a boy from Ceos, rumored to be particularly beautiful,” she adds, before her eyes glint brightly. “More of interest than the flush of his thighs though is that Aristides began courting him first, and we know how much more competition motivates men than beauty.”

“Their rivalry will be the death of him, as he was to Militiades,” snorts Hannibal, not bothering to hide his derisive tone when among friends, at home. “What time does Themistocles have now for any such things?”

Will senses the tell in Hannibal’s words, and Berenike seizes on it, her voice as a mild as milk. “Is he very busy now, the polemarch, when you’ve gone to see him?”

“Is he ever not?” answers Hannibal, quick to correct his misstep but already the information has been taken with a lovely smile and a sip of wine. In an instant, she knows why Hannibal was in the city, can surmise that something is afoot between the strategoi and the polemarch that would merit a great consumption of time, and she seems satisfied with this, for now.

In truth, she is a fascinating woman. Well-spoken and clever, aware of her charm and sway with words. Will can only imagine how she is when she stops speaking, when she chooses, instead, to use the charms of her body. He imagines and finds that he does not want to, would be entirely unskilled in reciprocating, and so inevitably his thoughts slip to Hannibal. 

That, he finds, does not help either.

Will catches her eyes on him and turns his own away. Demure he has down to an art, now, prideful and young, he thinks, he needs to control not showing quite so much. He worries she thinks him a child, worries she thinks this pointless. He wonders if other eromenoi have ever had a lesson with a woman such as her, thinks how Methodius would offer a limb for some "lessons" with her. He thinks how he feels entirely helpless in her company, and thinks learning from Hannibal, instead, how to woo and remain charming would do him more good.

"Are you often lost to daydreams?" she asks, startling Will from his thoughts, and he feels his cheeks heat. Hannibal, he finds, stays entirely quiet, does not, as Will’s father once did, answer for him. He gives him time to do so on his own, as with everything.

"I am never lost," Will responds, and it earns another smile, a small sound from Hannibal as he soaks up the oil on his plate with the last of his bread. "But I am often in my mind. Quiet is a shield they cannot take away from you, in any war."

Berenike cants her head just so, and Will watches as a curl of hair slips against her neck. Every movement, every word is considered, but effortless in action, and she thinks on his words for a moment more before answering.

“But it is a shield, still,” she acknowledges. “A defense one uses when they feel they are under attack.”

It is a genuine question, open and surprisingly honest, and Hannibal takes his cue from her tone and the glancing look she gives him to take up his plate and bring it to the kitchen to leave them be. He has told Will what he expects of him, that rudeness - already intolerable - would be unforgivable towards someone such as her, who he holds in such obvious esteem.

Her smile narrows her eyes pleasantly, as her own plate is taken away and a dish of dates brought to replace it, for both to share. “Now we may both speak more freely, but - you have your shield up already. Do you feel as though you’re under attack?”

Will’s lips part to speak, close again, and he sets his jaw, teeth working together a moment until he swallows and allows himself to relax, at least enough for his voice to not sound strained.

"I feel as though I have been sent unarmed to negotiate peace,” he admits sullenly, realizing the irony in once claiming to want to do just that. He licks his top lip into his mouth and tries again. "Hannibal explained that we would have a guest, but not who it would be. He explained that you would teach me of things he does not know."

He directs his eyes to the door behind her, where Hannibal had gone, and sighs.

"I don’t know what I can learn, when you are more capable of taking him than I am of keeping him,” he adds softly, no accusation there but the soft sadness from before, the strange tickling jealousy.

She smiles, softly, at the compliment and doesn’t deny his words. It’s apparent enough that Hannibal desires her - has, for as long as they’ve known each other - and that it would be hardly difficult for her to capitalize on that if it were to her benefit or interests to do so.

“I cherish very much the friendship I share with your general,” she responds, deferring here, to Will, and earning a blink from the boy. “But there are few enough of my kind who have access to Athens in the way that I do,” she tells him, “and such things must be considered carefully.”

Lifting a hand as if to brush the subject away with no more to say on Hannibal, at least, with Will as still and sullen as he is, she leans a little nearer, raising his chin with a finger to meet his eyes. “But you admit yourself that you feel unable to keep him, and so I will teach you things he does not imagine from you that will endear him more to you than he already is,” she promises, before another little grin parts her lips. “And he is already, very.”

Sitting back in her chair again to select a date from the dish, she continues. “My battles are not the same as his. Nor are yours, now, and they may differ still in the future if you endeavor to be a diplomat rather than a soldier,” Berenike says. “A healthy caution is invaluable when dealing with others, but you cannot let them see your shield. You’ve seen your general at Symposium, how cold he appears, how distant. An act of power, to wear his armor even when it is not on him, but expected of him and too hard a habit to break him of at this point, despite my best attempts. To defend yourself before attacks have begun is to give the presumption of attack - you will end the conversation before it has even begun. Do you understand?”

Will swallows again, nods. He understands. He rarely talks first in a group, rarely talks much within one. He is not a man of communication and yet wants to do nothing but. To speak before men and be heard, to be sought out for counsel. To go to symposium and command the room. It is a dream, warm and pleasant and entirely unattainable.

"How can I fortify myself when I am a boy in command of another? I do not have the armor he does, even to imagine. No right to claim it without scars to prove I have even attempted battle."

"Are all scars physical?" she asks him suddenly, and Will’s brows furrow. "Are all armors those for war? I wear my own and you do not see it, and my words will cut as sharp as any sword to anyone who wishes to spar with me. You are a boy, now, but you will not always be. But even as you are, consider that you are an eromenos. You are adored by a man of such status people rarely say his name, though all know it. You are held above all others, by him."

Berenike smiles, watching Will’s response, the way he blinks, the way his cheeks flush with color though he says nothing.

"That is power that few men, let alone boys, can claim."

Will bites his lip. He has felt the power of being Hannibal's, has felt the power of being his beloved, of having Hannibal follow where he usually leads, having him show loyalty and adoration where he would normally be stoic. He has felt that power, has cloaked himself in it and felt himself a giant. He allows a slightly wider smile, in gratitude, to her.

"How do you command a room?" he asks her, and the question is aimed at her personally, not seeking counsel on the matter. He remembers Hannibal being in thrall, entirely, to her at symposium, remembers the men before him stuttering over words to try and impress her and finding themselves unable.

She reclines more in her chair, seemingly suddenly younger than when she held herself so tall, shoulders straight, deliberately easing her body language to accommodate the setting, the context of their conversation. “Better already,” she tells him, with another easy smile. “You realize quickly that you have to say very little when you give others the opening to speak about themselves, and even if they’ve done nothing but, they will consider you an exemplary and gracious conversationalist.”

Another bite to finish the date that she started, making no attempt to hide her enjoyment of the simple pleasures of fresh fruit and country air. “Admittedly, my reputation now precedes me in most environments, so very little is required of me but to offer amusing comments and rebuff their advances. Much of it though is in the carriage, how you present yourself - as your general would not face his foes without surrounding himself in bronze, as much as to inspire feelings in them as to protect himself.”

As example, she draws herself up again, chin lifted just so, back straight, body held tall and proud. “You see?”

Will’s smile grows without his express choice for it to and he nods, a laugh catching his words.

"Yes."

They talk quicker then, a back and forth about any and all topics, etiquette and politics, unwelcome advances and humor, easing into a conversation when the topic is unfamiliar. Between them, the dates disappear, and Will practices changing his faces, over and over with each question, to the genuine amusement of them both.

"I had an encounter," he admits, having stood to pour them both a cup of wine, "at the agora with some boys my age, my status. They spoke of things, I -" Will takes a breath, holds it, releases it with an embarrassed smile. "I do not know what an eromenos does, beyond what I have been doing. And I want to make him happy, to bring him pleasure he does not expect of me, and -"

He bites his lip, eyes up through his fringe, question unspoken.

Berenike laughs, not in any cruelty but in a very genuine delight, eyes brightening. “Aphrodite, I can only _imagine_ what you’ve overheard from boys at the agora,” she sighs, running her hands along the back of her neck, to hold up the loose curls of hair and stretch her arms. “Almost certainly all wrong, as well,” she adds, accepting the wine with thanks.

“They made it sound as if there was much more that could be done,” Will ventures, brows lifting hopefully, and her smile turns a little catlike, unmistakably devious.

“That depends on what you’ve done already.”

Will’s cheeks flush dark and he nods at the inevitability of the question. For a moment he flounders, embarrassed not by the act but by his blatant enjoyment of it.

"We have bathed together, touched," he starts. “He has had my thighs, many times, his hand against me, mine on him." It seems so little, suddenly, the experiences, how few things they have tried and yet how novel and divine it always feels.

A warmth takes to her smile at this, expression softening - genuinely charmed by the boy’s shy candor, the fondness in his voice, by knowing now that Hannibal is as patient as she’d always imagined he might be in such circumstances, and has not done as so many others make habit in forcing themselves upon their boys.

“And does that satisfy you?” she asks, and Will’s smile twitches across his lips as he nods. “Does it satisfy him?”

“I think so,” agrees Will, and she seems pleased by this, as well.

“Then you needn’t worry about what other boys say, but,” she says, lifting a hand when she senses in his breath an objection coming, “I will tell you, since I know your general would not.” Berenike tastes the wine from her bottom lip and leans closer now, legs crossing at the ankles as she closes the distance between them, to keep their secrets from listening ears. “Have you tried to offer him your mouth? A far cry easier than offering your backside -” She grins, nodding as Will’s eyes widen. “Oh yes. But that too, a pleasure in itself, with enough olive oil between you both.”

Will’s jaw falls slack and his cheeks burn darker still.

"He told me, once, that it was improper, for a boy..." he tries, carefully, realizes how it sounds, in implication, almost buries his face in his arms in shame before just assuming a neutral look - to Berenike's amusement - and cocking his head. "I fear I would not be able to - I don’t know what to do."

A hum, considering, a slow sip of wine, and Berenike settles her fingers against the table. "Do you see how he responds to your fingers, how he shivers between your thighs?" Will nods quickly, cheeks red. "Imagine, now, how merely curling your tongue over him will make him tense and groan for you."

Will almost shivers himself, his breath certainly doing so when he exhales. He waits a moment more before licking his lips, swallowing.

"Would it hurt?" he asks softly. "Even with the oil?"

“That rather depends on how -” A pause, rare for one who considers her words so carefully in advance. “On how _gifted_ your general is,” she finishes, and the look on Will’s face tells her enough that to her pleasant surprise, she feels a moment of regret for not having allowed the man to have her. “But if he is gentle, and patient, and there is enough oil to slick the way,” she sighs, before letting out a little laugh. “Yes, it will, but with those other things taken into consideration, you’ll soon find pleasure in it.”

A pause, cup held against her lips as she smiles. “As will he. But your mouth first, hold his hips down if he moves too much, you don’t want him too far back before you’re ready,” she tells Will, excitement in her voice now, at the rare opportunity to share some of her secrets in this respect, with someone who presents her no competition. “Even if you only pay attention to the top of it at first, you know - the very sensitive part - it will be enough.”

Will’s cheeks are nearly the same color as the wine as he listens, astounded but absorbing her honesty as much as he can. “I don’t know if he’ll let me.”

“Because it’s improper for boys,” she clarifies. “Men.”

“Yes, it - it would shame me.”

“Ignore him when he says it and do it anyway, once you do he won’t want you to stop,” she whispers, dark eyes alight, before leaning back with a slight smile. “Besides, it’s not as if he doesn’t do those things with the pornoi, for whom he cares far less than you.”

“But I’m not - “

“Of course you aren’t, but what of it? Hannibal lives by the rules of the city that has adopted them, he must stick to their customs at risk of becoming foreign again,” she tells Will. “You are a born citizen, and may have whatever opinions you like about them. If you don’t see shame in what you do, do not feel ashamed of doing it. And do not shame those who might choose differently, in whatever way, simply for being born another sex than yourself.”

She finishes her wine and stretches, languid and feline. “You boys can only hope to be as _improper_ as we are.”

Will laughs at that, hand up to push the stray curls from his face as he regards the woman before him, the closest he has had to a friend, even with all the boys he had known before this. He ducks his head in thanks, sees her mirror the gesture, without saying even a word. It seems enough.

Will takes his leave not long after, Berenike allowing him, with a raised chin and narrowed eyes to kiss her hand before he goes. And he does, as he had offered, take the dogs and a horse to ride to the beach and along it, as Hannibal has his time with the enchanting woman he had invited to the country.

For a while, he just watches her, lounging in her chair, a smile small as he thinks of what she could have told his boy.

"Perhaps you will stay?" he asks her, voice tilting just enough to be warm implication, enough for her to turn to glance at him over her shoulder and raise a defined eyebrow.

"Stay?"

"For the country air," Hannibal smiles, licks his lips. “The quiet nights. The good company."

“I learned quite a lot about your good company today,” she muses, pleased to see Hannibal’s brow lift now in response.

“I can only imagine.”

“I feel much the same,” grins Berenike. “I don’t make it a habit to gossip, of course,” she continues, amusement lingering warm in her voice, “and so most of my lesson will need to remain between teacher and pupil, but -”

“But?” Hannibal asks.

She turns, elbows resting comfortably against the table, chin against the backs of her fingers as she murmurs, “I’m given reason to believe that General Hannibal’s mighty spear may not be his most powerful weapon.”

It’s rare that Hannibal ever, truly, feels shy, but a moment, his cheeks color and he blinks wide. Only a moment though, before he trains his expression to an absolute, almost comical neutrality, to preserve the sanctity of their conversation. “Though I’ve seen many weapons in passing,” he begins, “as one does when they are at war, I would defer to your most esteemed opinion on such matters, being trained in this particular style of warfare.”

A coy look before she moves to stand from the chair, graceful and dangerous as any soldier when she comes to stand before him, leaning against the opposite side of the door so their hips are parallel. She meets his eyes again, dark as hers are, hooded in his pleasure of her coming so close, though he does not reach out.

She does. As he would when greeting Will, fingers slender and small as they gather his tunic into her palm, slide her hand beneath to curl around Hannibal as he stands. He says nothing, beyond a bare flicker of his lip, the tightening of the muscles beneath his eyes, she says less, though her lips part and her head tilts in a knowing look. She strokes, once, and lets him go.

Her movements are liquid, perfect in their execution as she presses herself to Hannibal, draws her knuckles down his cheek.

"You be careful with that boy,” she murmurs.

Hannibal allows her to see the shiver she causes through him, though he does not take advantage of her closeness, the lithe and lovely body drawn so near to his own, equipped with a mind just as fierce. He does not address the implication of her words, knows that such a thing is unlikely to be with his boy the way he is, and so ducking his head, he arches a brow and against Berenike’s ear, says only, “I would need be far less careful with you, I think.”

Her laugh is soft, a single sweet note as intoxicating as her touch had been, and she presses her palm against his cheek. “More so, but in far less enjoyable ways.”

“You’re certain you won’t stay?” he offers again, knowing before she even shakes her head what the answer will be, and he sighs when it comes.

“And risk offending your eromenos?” laughs Berenike. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Gentling then, from the vicious and wonderful teasing between them, she offers Hannibal an embrace, and he returns it warmly. “Take care of him. He’s special, that one, and adores you entirely too much.”

Though his attempts have been freshly rebuffed, as Hannibal knew they would be, as he anticipated and in some strange way enjoys, he finds that her words warm him just as wholly, and he murmurs his thanks for her time in coming out to spend the day with Will, with both of them, before seeing her out to her horse, and the slave who will accompany her back to the polis.

“You’ll come again?” he asks, once she’s astride her graceful mount, Hannibal at her side.

“For you, anything,” Berenike answers, giving a toss of her head and a coy grin across her shoulder. “Well, nearly anything.”

“Cruel,” Hannibal mutters, and with another laugh and dust beneath her horse’s hooves, she’s gone.

He watches as she disappears into the distance, a moment more of peace beyond that as the air clears and the damp summer heat settles in once more. There has been so little time at home, the confrontation almost a certainty now, enough that talk has turned from possibilities to planning, to muster what strength Attica and the city-states can when facing an army that by all accounts dwarfs the population of Athens herself. It does not bear to think about it now, here, when he is meant to relax and enjoy how the day had gone, but the sound of the sea brings only thoughts of ships, and the rustle of leaves in the trees reminds of early morning on the battlefield.

Pressing his fingers against his eyes, Hannibal sighs again, a sound with more weight upon it than the simple relief he had taken in good company, before returning to the house. Unaccosted by hounds, Hannibal assumes the boy has gone - as he said he would - to the cliffs and not yet returned, in spite perhaps for being forced to spend the day as he did. Hannibal recalls the narrow look that was given, even as he came to embrace the boy before all else, and with a snort, takes a cup of wine back to his room to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then if you do not see it as shameful,” Will responds, with another kiss. “And if you do not judge those who would give this to you,” he continues, another, lips soft and so sweet in the newness of discovery. “Then let me,” asks Will, blinking wide. “Please.”
> 
> Hannibal’s tongue presses between his lips and he considers the wisdom that his eromenos speaks to him, a gift given - not demanded or even requested - without exchange of money or bribery but simply because Will wishes to please him, to explore and discover.
> 
> He has never been able to tell Will no.

With a groan, Hannibal spreads himself across his bed, and blows out the oil lamp beside him.

His muscles twitch, finally at rest after the morning’s ride from the polis, and the afternoon’s work mending fences in the goat pasture. It was as much to give the boy and Berenike their space as it was to repair the damage done by the surly animals, with horns and hooves and gnawing flat teeth. Weathered thick branches fitted together by force and luck, to keep the beasts contained and their predators out, though no sooner had Hannibal hammered the last into place then he looked back to see the stroppiest goat with his yellowed teeth sunk into the new wood.

He can only hope his boy had not been so stubborn, and had managed to learn a thing or two from one of the wisest women that Hannibal has the honor to know. With a snort, he rolls onto his side, imagining Will’s arms folded and his eyes rolling, and Hannibal takes a long pull of wine. Spread bare atop the blankets, too hot even at night to be beneath them, Hannibal stretches across the bed and has nearly found sleep when his door creaks open. He cracks an eye, pleased and disappointed all at once to see Yelp wheezing at him as he enters, tail banging the door open further as he pads towards the bed.

“Come on, then,” mutters Hannibal, grunting when the enormous dog - still a puppy, he thinks woefully - clambers over him to lay at his side. Resting one hand on the dog’s shaggy head, and the other arm across his eyes, he tells Yelp, as ever, that he is a terrible dog, and the last thing Hannibal recalls before sleep takes him is the feel of a wet nose shoved up beneath his chin.

He wakes surprisingly early, the dawn not yet touching the sky, and realizes that the nose against him is no longer cold. Whatever had pulled the snoring, heavy dog from his side has replaced it, childish nuzzles and warm lips, and Hannibal groans softly, dropping an arm to rest over blissfully soft skin, warm from sleep, entirely bare.

Will smiles against Hannibal’s neck and nips him gently before sitting up. “You woke before I wanted to wake you,” he whispers, smile sleepy and eyes hooded with it. He must have come home just as Hannibal was falling asleep, if Yelp’s arrival is anything to go by, and had gone to bathe, to return and find Yelp comfortably sprawled where Will usually sleeps. Perhaps he had coaxed the dog out later - earlier that morning - and for that Hannibal has little care, Will is here now.

Hannibal stretches, letting his eyes slip closed again even as he knows the sun is soon to rise. From his neck down to his arms, pressed straight, torso tightening, legs and feet pointed, held until he nearly trembles with it, and then released. He offers a snort in response to the boy’s words. “And I slept before you returned,” he complains mildly. Still, he shoves an arm beneath Will, the other still across him, and brings them both chest to chest to kiss drowsy, clumsy things against his mouth, his nose, his brow, before settling with a cheek turned against Will’s head. A leg slips over him next, heavy, wrapping over Will’s slender thighs to bring them close there, too. “Have I done something to earn your ire?” he asks, without releasing the warm little body held half-beneath his own. “To be greeted as I was, when I wished for nothing more than to be near you again.”

Will hums, untangles his arms enough to press them warm to Hannibal’s chest, to allow the soft kisses and sleepy cuddling, feeling his guilt slip beneath his skin again at how he had greeted Hannibal, how he had assumed so quickly that the man would be so cruel to him when he had never before been.

“I had no right to be so unkind,” Will replies, quiet, seeking to nuzzle Hannibal again, feeling him sleep-heavy and pleased with the contact. Will thinks how he had ridden, far as he could before the horse tired, before the dogs lagged back and he had to turn back for them. They never made the cliffs, but they still came home well past the setting of the sun. “I was not rude,” he promises, soft. “I learned and we spoke and I should like to see her again, when she is able and if you are willing.”

It’s an honest request, though Will knows that it could be months before Berenike is at leisure to give her time as she had the day before, perhaps a year. Thought perhaps when they next met at Symposium, they would converse more, take turns in their bewitching.

What little tension - more the memory of it than the thing itself, in truth - came over Hannibal eases now. He nuzzles against Will’s hair, washed clean and sweet with scented oil, and kisses him there. Again upon his brow. Once more on the cheek as Will tilts his head upwards towards him. “I am glad that you were gracious,” Hannibal tells him, circling a hand to spread across Will’s chest. “I am glad that you learned.”

Finally opening his eyes again, he regards his boy, cheeks warmly colored from sleep, and lifts Will’s chin so that their mouths meet again. “She spoke well of you,” Hannibal tells him. “Though not of what you learned,” he adds, sleepy amusement catching the corners of his mouth. “I can only begin to imagine of what you two spoke, if you were as friendly as it sounds.”

Will merely hums, smiling back, accepting another kiss but wriggling free from under Hannibal when the man moves to press him to the bed. He thinks of what they had discussed, how if he does not find an act shameful he should not feel shame for it. Bringing pleasure has never brought shame to Will’s mind, never once, and so, now, as he twists and turns Hannibal onto his back instead, he kisses him, feels his cheeks flush red, and bites his lip.

“I missed you during the day,” Will admits, voice soft still, lips softer as they press to Hannibal’s chest, nuzzling through warm hair, and lower still. “We spoke of you,” he adds, amused at Hannibal’s hum of question, seeking explanation and predictably not finding it from the boy. “At great length and in amusing detail. She speaks highly of you as well. She holds your friendship in high regard.”

Will’s lips travel lower, to Hannibal’s stomach where he kisses, turns his cheek to nuzzle him, with a shivering sigh to his hips. Stirring a bit more, in more ways than simply awakening, Hannibal watches the boy curiously as he goes. Threading fingers through his hair, he pushes back the curls - still a little damp from his bath - to meet his eyes, blue as the sea and focused only on Hannibal, across the length of his bare body where Will’s fingers follow his mouth.

“I am stricken,” Hannibal mutters, “to imagine what the two of you consider amusing detail.” He does not add that Berenike gave him clear enough indication when she felt beneath his chiton, and genuinely blushed at what she found there.

He tucks an arm back behind his head and sighs long and comfortable as Will lingers against his stomach, mouth parting warm against his skin and drawing closed again - sometimes with teeth, sometimes with tongue. But it’s not until Will moves lower still - fingers pressed to Hannibal’s thighs and his breath soft against the thick curls of hair there - that Hannibal lets go of his hair and holds him instead by the jaw, gently stopping him.

“What are you doing?”

Will’s eyes are wide, lips parted as his heart beats quickly and he forces his mind steady. It is not shameful if he finds no shame in it. He thinks of the way Berenike had grinned, how pleased she had been that he would want to do this for Hannibal, with him, how she had told him that once Will started, Hannibal would not make him stop. But he has no answer to give, nothing he can say that will not end in Hannibal refusing the gesture, explaining how it will shame Will, how it would damage him as a man in society if anyone knew. Right now, he doesn’t care. Hannibal is semi-hard already from just touching Will, from waking up to him, and Will finds that he _wants_ , he desperately _wants_ to try, if only the one time.

Swallowing, he turns his head in Hannibal’s hand and kisses his palm, kisses his wrist, brings his own hand up to hold him gently and lower his hand so it rests against his thigh, allowing Will to kiss the skin there instead, to move and press his lips to the coarse hair around his twitching arousal. Taking a quick breath, entirely too nervous, too excited, feeling both adventurous and disobedient, Will spreads his tongue over Hannibal’s cock and licks, just once, breath shuddering from him in a nervous little laugh to cool the wet skin as he raises his eyes to see the response.

Back arching upward, belly towards the ceiling, a resonant shudder curves Hannibal's hips to seek out that touch again, and he swears a guttural Neuri curse. Despite the pleasure that ran from Will's warm tongue - spread flat against the shaft of his cock - all the way up Hannibal's spine to nearly make his hair stand on end, he stops Will again. Hannibal glides his fingers across the boy's smooth cheek. "Peacemaker," he murmurs, "you need not. Should not - ”

Near enough that Will’s lips brush against Hannibal’s now-hard cock as he speaks, he responds softly, “Because it’s seen as shameful.”

“Yes,” Hannibal sighs, pushing his own shaggy hair back now from his face, fingers tightening in reluctance.

“Do you see it as such?”

“Do I - ”

“Do you see it as shameful?” Will asks again, lips curving against the taut, flushed skin in a lingering kiss that pulls another long breath from Hannibal and brings his hips rocking upward once more.

He swallows hard, focused only on the boy’s bright blue eyes, and Hannibal shakes his head.

“Do you see it as shameful when women do it for you?” presses Will. His words are heat against the sensitive skin, and Hannibal feels his pulse quicken in response. “Do you think less of them for it?”

“No,” Hannibal answers, “but you are not - ”

“Then if you do not see it as shameful,” Will responds, with another kiss. “And if you do not judge those who would give this to you,” he continues, another, lips soft and so sweet in the newness of discovery. “Then let me,” asks Will, blinking wide. “Please.”

Hannibal’s tongue presses between his lips and he considers the wisdom that his eromenos speaks to him, a gift given - not demanded or even requested - without exchange of money or bribery but simply because Will wishes to please him, to explore and discover.

He has never been able to tell Will no.

“Yes,” sighs Hannibal softly, settling back against the bed and sinking his fingers deep through Will’s hair.

With a grin, Will swallows, and ducks his head to lick again, feeling Hannibal shiver, muscles tense, cock hardening from just that alone. Another bucking of hips and Will sets his hands against them, little and splayed, and firmly holds him down.

He remembers the advice, how if he could not fit his mouth around its entire length, teasing just the tip would be enough. So Will does, lips parted and pressing, rubbing against the slowly swelling head of Hannibal’s cock where it rests curved over his belly.

The taste is unusual but far from unpleasant, and Will finds himself eager to try and see how much his mouth can take before he calls a limit. He finds, to his great displeasure, that he can take very little, but it seems that that is quite enough for Hannibal, who groans and trembles beneath him as Will sucks against the head and lifts his eyes to watch him.

Another curse, breathed deep in Hannibal’s native tongue, eyes closing and mouth parting slack as Will’s mouth surrounds him, as much as he can. Tasting with long kisses and sucking first too hard, then too soft, altogether a delight to feel Will find his own limits and drive Hannibal to a breathless madness with the wonderful inconsistency of it. He strokes through Will’s hair, again and again, and as he feels Will’s tongue slide against him again, up to the very tip to taste the clear fluid there, Hannibal nearly curls off the bed around him, groaning low.

Hannibal finds that he cannot stop from praising the boy, across both languages they share, words in Neuri that are yet unfamiliar to Will but he knows the meaning of them if only from the adoration with which they’re spoken. He tells Will that he is beautiful and depraved, insufferable and fearless, words that fall apart into low, purring little sounds from the man who writhes so readily beneath Will’s mouth and gentle hands, fingers curled against the general’s powerful and trembling thighs.

“The length of it,” Hannibal pleads low, as the teasing against the sensitive head - swollen and red and slick - becomes too much. “Your tongue, beautiful boy, please.”

Will obeys quickly, lips parting wider and tongue flat to lick Hannibal as he wishes, slow languid pulls against the hot skin before Will sets his lips to the side of Hannibal’s cock and sucks there instead. Perhaps to offer the sensation where his lips cannot reach otherwise, perhaps because every time his lips close around Hannibal the man groans and writhes for him, spewing more of those beautiful, foreign words.

With more instruction, Will learns to alternate, when to surprise with his tongue, when to suck. A jerk he cannot prevent accidentally sets Will’s teeth to sensitive skin and it proves far from an inconvenience when Hannibal's fingers in Will’s hair tighten and encourage him to do it again. It is an exquisite exploration, Hannibal trembling beneath Will as Will has trembled beneath him so many times before. He feels himself smile, eyes up again, to watch Hannibal’s throat work as he pants into the slowly lightening room around them. He has drawn up his knees, made himself entirely vulnerable to Will in a way he has to few others.

Will pulls back, breathless, jaw sore, and kisses Hannibal's stomach almost reverently.

A long-held breath escapes the man and he finds his pulse again, steadies it as Will’s fingers splay against his cock, and then drags the boy atop him. Kissing him - a hungry, wanton thing, Hannibal’s tongue parting Will’s flushed lips - he kisses him until he has to stop to breathe, and then turns the boy beneath him. Broad hands cover his chest, his ribs, kissing down his body and following every writhing twist of it, to his hips, as Hannibal sits back on his knees.

A first for them both, in truth, something neither had imagined ever doing for another, as Hannibal nuzzles against the soft patch of hair between Will’s legs. He drags his tongue over the join of his thigh, bites lightly against his hip, murmuring endless adoration against his belly before finally ducking his head to take Will’s cock between his lips instead. Will’s breathing hitches and he curls one hand in the sheets beside him, gripping tight as his eyes open wide and his thighs tremble from the sensation. The heat, the wet, the rolling caress of Hannibal’s tongue against him sends Will to soft noises of utter pleasure, breathless and weak.

It feels good. It feels beyond good. And Will draws fingers through Hannibal’s hair with a soft laugh that becomes a moan, little and needy. "Hannibal, please -" Will’s lips tilt in a smile, a grin, as he squirms beneath the man’s hot mouth and spreads himself as Hannibal had. “Feels so good..."

Feet digging into the bed on either side of Hannibal, the older man hums approval at the words and watches in delight as the vibrations send Will arching high again with a sweet, lovely whimper. His fingers tighten and splay, again and again in Hannibal hair and he lifts his eyes to watch his eromenos’ blush spread from his nose to his cheeks, spilling down until even his chest his flushed.

The twitching of Will’s cock against his tongue is a delight. Hannibal pulls his lips slowly back, to just the tip of the pert pink head, tongue tracing against the slit as Will had for him. A laugh breaks free from Will and he lifts a hand to his face, shaking with it, covering his eyes as his body trembles outside of his control. Lower then, Hannibal presses his lips, taking the boy further into his mouth to feel the weight of him there, to taste him entirely. Though inexpert, uneven in his movements as the boy himself had been, it is as much a pleasure to watch Will squirm and buck beneath him as it was to feel his mouth against Hannibal’s own length. Will feels the coiling in his stomach and gasps, the familiar need, almost aching _want_ to relieve the pleasure coursing through him. Too soon, much too soon... this should be nothing compared to being bent for Hannibal, heavy cock between Will’s thighs as they rub, together. It should be nothing but Will is seeing stars.

"Oh.” Breath trembling, lips up in a smile before he bites his lip and moans, wanton and loud, toes curling and splaying once more. "Hannibal," Will sighs, laughs, pulls his long hair. "Hannibal I... please, I need... I -"

He wants to tell him he needs to feel Hannibal against him, between his legs, hot over skin and trembling muscle beneath his fingers. Another long suck and Hannibal moans in tandem with Will, sending the boy squirming entirely for him until he almost sobs his pleasure. Will’s voice cracks beautifully, broken between words and sounds, laughs and sighs, caught behind the hand that he spreads across his face as if to hide the blush that now covers him, warm and rosy. The very image of youth in its splendor, idolized by Athens above all other things, and Hannibal lucky enough to experience Will’s glory, his ecstasy, shared new and wonderful between them.

The telltale twitch of Will’s cock, the little noise he makes in warning, earns a long-drawn removal of Hannibal’s lips from around him. He sits up closer, above him, knees against the back of Will’s thighs and cocks brushing before Hannibal takes them both in hand. A breathless kiss, open-mouthed, tongues touching in passing, is gasped between them as Hannibal lowers over the beautiful boy beneath him. With no more than a few quick strokes against them both, his sigh becomes a low groan and his hips still, release spilling hot against Will’s little cock, his twitching belly, and Hannibal dizzied by the rough rush of it.

It doesn’t take long for Will’s release to hit him, pushing him back against the bed with a breathless laugh and a wide grin, cheeks flushed and already considering how he could thank Berenike for her excellent advice to hold his ground. He’s shaking, adrenaline and pleasure coursing through him as he watches Hannibal find a tunic - perhaps his own, perhaps Will’s - to wipe them both clean.

He thinks, absently, amused, at how he had tasted Hannibal in that field, just to see. Thinks how next time, perhaps, he will try again.

Thin arms wrap around Hannibal’s shoulders, pull him close again and Will kisses his cheek, almost shy, almost sweet. Just nuzzling against Hannibal until he feels the older man settle to rest against him, beard scruffy against Will’s bare chest, hair partially braided as Will works his fingers through it to let it loose again.

“Perhaps some things are kept forbidden so that their pleasure is not widely known,” Will muses, bites his lip. “A good secret stays that way because no one knows it.”

Hannibal lifts his head enough to regard Will at length, slight smile curving his lips as the innocence of his words wraps warm inside of him. “Perhaps,” he agrees simply, before brushing a kiss against Will’s chest and settling again, beneath slender fingers that work his hair free. “And how lucky we are then, that we know the truth of it.”

They lay that way for a long while, as the sun rises higher into the sky and the house stirs to life. The smell of breakfast fills the house, soft voices as the others who live with them begin to tend the chores, and only when Will’s leg has grown numb where Hannibal lays heavy over him does the older man roll aside with a sigh, though still does not drag himself from bed.

“You learned more than only that, I hope?” he asks, amusement crinkling his eyes, hair hanging lank over his bare, broad shoulders. “Though a lesson well-taught and practiced, certainly.”

Will regards him before rolling to lie on his side, one hand beneath his head, the other resting on the bed. He watches the sleepiness leave Hannibal in increments, until the general is entirely himself again, still gentled and warm, but himself, just as regal, even bare. Will’s eyes narrow and his nose wrinkles in pleasure at the question.

“Secrets, general,” he tells him, voice coy, tilting himself and his words as he had been taught, to adjust to a situation, to appear the conversationalist with only listening. “Shared only when earned.”

A blink, brows lifting, and Hannibal huffs a laugh, sliding an arm beneath the boy to pull him closer. Will inches forward and rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, watching the general watching him. “Is it so,” he hums. “Already a conspirator against me, to charm me to my wit’s end and leave me wondering how I have found myself so overcome.”

He buries his nose in Will’s hair, breathes him in, and sighs. “Better kept than even earned,” he advises the boy. “It would be a very boring place, the world, if we knew the inner workings of everything within it. Nothing new to discover and delight in.” Kissing Will softly, he feels his eromenos tuck a smile against his chest. “Keep your mysteries then, and let me experience them as they reveal themselves.”

\---

Training leads to another parting of ways, Hannibal to the house to write an urgent letter, and Will to the fields to coax his horse closer again to get her used to a tether. She comes quicker now, but is still wary. She does, however, allow Will to stand at her side and press close to calm her when she paws nervously at the dirt. More and more, Will finds that she seeks the comfort, rather than trying to tear from it.

It is progress, he tells himself, as he releases her to the fields again and finds her merely trotting there, not cantering in terror. It is progress.

Inside, he finds Hannibal busy, writing his own letter, and not dictating, suggesting the content of the letter to be more confidential than even for Will or Asherah to know. He leaves him without comment, does not even catch his attention in greeting, and goes, instead, to the kennels. Within, Hannibal’s three dogs lounge and enjoy the long rays of the sun, the soft straw, as Will’s dogs enjoy the same in his room. He takes his time greeting them all, though he does encourage them to join the runs in the morning and in play, they rarely do, the bitch especially too territorial to allow the pups that once suckled from her to come near.

He devotes a few extra moments in cuddling her in particular, long enough for her tail to beat against the clay floor in pleasure, rare enough that she shows it. Will grins and leaves her alone, moving from the kennels back outside.

He finds himself restless, unable to pin down exactly what the sensation means. He can feel the tension in the air, wafted from the vast ocean, in the house itself, from Hannibal before he can ease it from his muscles. War is close, and it’s growing closer, and as frightened as Will is of it, he almost wishes it would come, simply to allow Hannibal that breath, that moment to move from anticipation to preparation.

He curses his mind and takes the words back, repeating the retraction until he returns to his room, wades through the dogs there - four of them, the other three in the fields, perhaps, or with Asherah; Riot and Tawny have started to follow her, when Will is not in the vicinity to jump on - and seats himself by the window. He thinks how, as an only child, at his home with his father, he had learned quickly to entertain himself, crafting toys and worlds in his mind that would keep him occupied for hours.

He fiddles absently with the corner of a piece of parchment, scribbled over with runes, as he had practiced the shape and feel of them late into the night. Scrap now, and nothing more. Will lifts the page and turns it, bends it into one shape and another, before his fingers start to press edges sharper and find folds more easily, constructing he knows not what, just to give his hands something to do.

Slowly the shape takes form, as much of it luck as deliberate choices, spindly paper legs with a scrunched uneven egg-shape for the body. Will sets it aside, biting his lip as it teeters and falls. A few more adjustments, brow furrowed, another unsteady couple of attempts until it stands, and he tears off another piece of the parchment paper he’s been given - made good use of - to begin shaping out an arched neck and a little head.

Spit joins the two parts, held in place as Will watches out the window. The wind catches Hannibal’s hair - not yet braided from the morning - and tugs at his tunic as he passes off the sealed letter to one of the slaves, to deliver to the messenger who will take it onwards to the polis. Hannibal’s horse stands ready, gouging her hooves into the earth in anticipation, and a conversation takes place, unheard from here, with the younger man shaking his head at Hannibal and Hannibal turning his eyes skyward, hands against his hips. He points towards the distance, where Will can’t see, insistent - it seems - that the slave take his horse and not any of the others.

Will tests the join of the parchment, stuck enough that he can set it in the window to let it dry, before sliding barefoot to the floor and making his way to the front of the house. The wind knocks him off his stride and he turns towards the sky where Hannibal motioned to take in the wall of dark clouds roiling upwards over the sea. Like smoke from a fire, black and billowing.

“If you take her, you will make it back in time,” Hannibal assures the younger man, who still regards Hannibal’s horse warily. “Go, now, and do not argue. The others would as soon break your neck if the storm maintains.”

“She will ride true,” Will tells him, the man turning to him and seeming to accept the second opinion, held by a Greek who has ridden these horses as well as others. He turns to Hannibal again with a shallow bow before taking the reins and mounting, displeasure evident on his features but riding with purpose all the same, when the horse takes him like the wind towards the polis.

Will watches a while before walking closer to Hannibal, arms around himself as the wind picks up.

“You fear the reply to that letter,” he says. It is not a question.

The general is silent, watching as the dust kicks up fast behind them, carried away by the storm. It is as though Will’s words, too, have been blown away, silence between them but for the far shudder of thunder.

“I know the reply to that letter,” Hannibal tells him. He is not unkind, not harsh in his words - they are as soft as Will has ever heard them, as the wind tears against his back.

He wonders how much the boy should know, how much he needs to know. By orders, he should know nothing. By orders, Will would not know of the strange triremes nor Persia’s bolstering strength nor the reason that Hannibal has found himself waking at night to wander through the house, across the grounds of the farm they share. Memorizing every part of every field, every tree in its right place whole and heavy with fruit, every surly goat and every shaggy horse, every hen and board and the feel of the air against his skin when he sits sleepless overlooking the sea.

Orders change as needed. Strategies change. Tactics to prevent the loss of life of their own while ending those of others.

Hannibal presses a palm against his eye, tired from writing all day, shoulders bent from where he sat over the desk and the weight that even now bears them down.

“Persia moves, and so will Attica,” Hannibal finally says.

Will hears the words, considers how perhaps his retraction was taken by the wind, had angered the Gods and they moved to teach him of his ignorance. He sets his eyes to the sky and watches the storm brewing, feels it against his skin and wonders if his heart can pound any faster.

“When?” he asks, soft, and hopes his fear is unheard, that merely shock, or worry, or displeasure takes its place. Again, Hannibal appears not to hear, and Will supposes that once the slave returns with the answering letter, they will know.

“It will not hit us until tonight,” Will comments, almost absently, “but we will need to bring some of the animals inside, when it does.”

The words are grounding, the voice kind, and Hannibal finds his concern distracted now to things that he can manage and control. The farm. The animals. The people who live here and trust in him to stay steadfast. Pushing his hair back from his face, he turns to regard the boy at his side, his peacemaker, and slips an arm around his shoulders to draw him near and kiss his brow.

“Come,” Hannibal tells him. “We will give Asherah and the rest their night, and prepare dinner ourselves.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was storming when I came here,” he says. “The first time I saw Greece was in darkness, howling wind and lightning.”
> 
> Will blinks, curious, and feels a smile on his face despite the news that hangs over them, the anticipation of more. He swallows the bread and tears another piece. “Did you think it a city cursed?” he asks.
> 
> "No," Hannibal responds after a moment of thought. "I thought myself cursed."

Though the storm does not hit their farm, the afternoon grows dark quickly, covering the sun and sending displeasure and worry through the household. The slaves are given their leave, free to eat if they so wish, or to take their evening early if they choose to do that instead. Asherah stands her ground on dinner until Hannibal sends her away from that as well, not with a stern voice but with a gentle request. And that, at least, she listens to.

Will watches Hannibal gut the fish, fresh caught today, and takes the meat to season when it is passed to him. They don’t speak, but the silence is not uncomfortable, perhaps just a time needed for Hannibal to sort his thoughts, time needed for Will to do the same.

Will picks at a piece of bread as Hannibal sets the fish to sear, the loud hissing making Will’s brows draw until it is not quite so loud. He sets a piece of bread to his tongue and closes his lips around it to carefully chew, thoughtful, eyes distant, he shifts only when Hannibal speaks again, voice low.

“It was storming when I came here,” he says. “The first time I saw Greece was in darkness, howling wind and lightning.”

Will blinks, curious, and feels a smile on his face despite the news that hangs over them, the anticipation of more. He swallows the bread and tears another piece. “Did you think it a city cursed?” he asks.

"No," Hannibal responds after a moment of thought. "I thought myself cursed."

Will pushes the bread against the inside of his cheek, lets it grow soft and the flavor spread across his mouth. "Why?"

An innocent question - natural, Hannibal supposes. "It is a long story, peacemaker, and a woeful one. Ill-suited for a meal." But when, Hannibal asks himself as Will looks on, brows drawn again. When if not now, when on receipt of his answer from Athens, there may be no time left to tell it to the only one who might survive enough to remember.

To tell it again.

To not let their memory be wiped from the world.

Will doesn't press but the silent questions are there and after a time, turning the fish to grill the still-pink side of it, Hannibal sighs, soft. "I was fleeing, from my family's lands, from those who overtook it. And alongside those whose language I did not speak, to a place that meant nothing to me." A pause, as he presses the fish against the fire. "I thought that the storm was the gods pursuing me, to hold me accountable."

WIll watches him, head tilted and eyes narrowed in thought. He draws up one foot to press beneath his thigh where he sits and settles his weight behind him against his arms on the wide counter as Hannibal continues to cook. He has never thought to ask, before, where Hannibal was from or why he had come here. He had wondered many times, but never asked. Always too scared or distracted to try seek his answers.

He imagines Hannibal, little and frightened, though he would be scowling to show anger in fear’s stead, in a crowd of people who did not speak to him or see him there, in a place that was not his own. Will thinks how scared he had been to be taken here, within his own city, his own country, with free access at any time to speak with his father, and feels guilt claw at him at the memory. He hopes, that in his own eyes and Hannibal’s both, he has grown.

“For managing to escape?” Will asks him softly, a prompt to go on if Hannibal so wished, meal or no meal, long story or short. Will feels a tug in his chest that he tries to ignore, a sensation and emotion that pulls at him to ask, and seek, and know, _now_ before there is no other chance.

“For not dying with them,” answers Hannibal. There is silence between them, but for the frying of the fish, moved to an area of less heat now, herbs sprinkled across it that immolate when they fall past it and through the grate below. He draws a long breath, holds it long enough that he can taste the smell of it, and sighs.

“There is no greater death to be rewarded with than that given in battle,” he continues. “Defending one’s home. One’s family. And I would have, certainly, had I stayed. But I was afraid and I was alone, and when I should have rushed against the snakes who came for us, I fled.”

Hannibal’s jaw works, eyes dark and distant. “I am not certain that the gods have ever forgiven me for it,” he murmurs. “Nor should they.”

Will’s brows furrow further, the pain is so palpable he can feel it coursing through him; the guilt, the fear, the cold of the storm that has yet to hit here but had raged then, brutal and cruel, convincing a young man he was not worthy of his own life.

He does not try to convince Hannibal that what he did was brave, that coming to a new place, and joining the army here, fighting here, was incredibly brave. He says nothing at all for a long time, just watches the fish sear, breathes in the smell of it, fresh and mixed with herbs and coarse salt.

“I think the Gods see everything. Not one act that you are weighed against forever,” Will tells him softly, eyes up and expression warm, though he does not smile. “You have earned your life here, your family here, and you have not run from them.”

He swallows, slips both feet to the floor and stands, hands against the counter behind him still. “Where did they come from?” he asks instead.

“From the south, I imagine, far beyond the forests. They warmed themselves in the clothes of those they slew along the way, unprepared for the cold they encountered,” Hannibal responds, his voice steady, words carefully considered. “Scythian raiders, sent to scout for Persia to see what our lands might hold for them.”

A breath escapes him, almost a laugh but so bitter as to be anything but. “Skirmishes were not uncommon, tribe on tribe, pushing against the others for space, but we were unprepared for the way in which they struck, merciless and fast as we slept.” Leaving the fish to cool, Hannibal steps away, as much to avoid the earnest eyes of the boy who watches him with such attention as to continue with dinner, though his hunger has waned enough that the thought of it makes him uneasy.

“Many of them died, at the hands of our own. Just enough lived that they could set our homes afire and take what or whomever they pleased.”

Will studies the slow movements of the knife against the vegetables, lets his gaze follow the tension in Hannibal’s arm to where it holds his shoulders straight. “Your family,” he breathes, careful words delicately spoken, and Hannibal hums.

“My mother was taken by them, and my father slew them but could not withstand the rest,” he responds, tightening back any emotion he can from his words, flattening his tone. “They killed them both and so I took my sister to run for the woods.”

Will doesn’t know why he imagines winter, cold enough that his breath steams before him, the smell of burning pelt and oil sickening and coiling nausea in his gut. The tents burn and he wonders, truly, why they oiled them at all to make them such easy fodder. Surely the rain and snow would have stayed out without it.

He feels a tug against his arm and turns and sees just her hair, curled and weighed down by ash and muck, tugging and pulling and reaching for the fires as Will wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her feet from the ground, feeling his own slip just a little before he finds steady ground and runs.

Tents burn. Ground burns. Flesh burns. Lungs burn. And he keeps running, fast as his legs carry him, fast as he can with the squirming, screaming bundle in his arms. And no words work, and she won’t stop crying, Will’s palm against her little mouth now to quiet her, telling her they have to go, that if they don’t the bad men will find them too.

Will almost jerks when Hannibal touches him again, eyes wide and lips parted, the air in his lungs still freezing from that winter, the taste of ash on his tongue. He swallows, thick, blinks rapidly and shakes his head.

“You cannot think yourself anything but brave for saving her life,” he tells him.

Hannibal falters.

The knife slips, clattering from his hand to the counter, and he does not move to take it up again. His hands brace there, a tightness so sudden and uncontrolled that it is startling - nearly painful - to see in him. He stands silent, to gather himself together again and swallow past the tightness in his throat.

When, if not now.

To not let their memory be wiped from the world.

“Would that I did,” Hannibal answers. He does not take up the knife again. Does not turn to the boy at his back. “They found us, though I tried to cover the tracks. They found us and they took her. Punishment, for my insolence.”

Hannibal’s words break and he takes a hard breath through his nose to find the words he has never spoken to anyone, to fit the memories that have never faded against them. “Had I not run - they might have taken us both with them. They might at least have given her mercy in death. Had I not -”

It’s all Will can do to not stop, knowing that even if he hurts one, just one, it is one less than how many found them, one less to hurt her, one less to hurt him, one less. So he fights, nails and teeth and growls from the depth of his chest that pull laughter from the men around him until he claws hard enough for one to lose an eye, and then the laughter stops.

He is a wolf. And he will not let them forget it.

It is all he can do to falter, just as quickly, beg for them to stop, that it was he who fought them, shamed them, hurt them, that it is he they should be hurting in return. But then a hand snares in his hair and yanks his head up, kicked down to his knees already, and he knows that they are, that any pain that they can inflict on him physically is nothing to this. And he cannot look away, eyes held open by how harshly his hair is twisted, how much his skin pulls and how he can feel, root by root, follicles pulling from his scalp.

He thinks she does not stop screaming forever, that hours and hours pass and still she is not silent. He thinks that had he not tried to run with her, had he hidden her instead, perhaps they would have let her go, perhaps she would have gone with the others, away from the fires, a captive but one who could cry in the voice of her people and be understood. Here she cries in a voice Will cannot imagine, did not know a human being was capable of, and it is only when the blood stops steaming in the snow that he knows that sound is his own, and that she had stopped long ago just calling his name and reaching with little hands.

Will’s chest aches, his lungs squeezed tight enough to feel as though they are inverting. If only he had not run, had not fought had not been too scared to stay his ground -

Will blinks and watches Hannibal lean against the counter, fingers pressing to it before he finally takes up the blade again and continues his work, vicious cuts the soft vegetables do not need to come apart, harsh scrape of the blade to set the massacred things aside. Will watches Hannibal until the other looks back, until he starts to speak again.

“They took those of us who remained, and we did not fight. There was nothing left to fight for.” Hannibal sweeps the vegetables aside, continuing simply to have some movement for his hands now, some distraction. “I did not speak again for a very long time. We were joined up with other tribes - some that were known to us, many that were not. They took us south with them, bound in ropes and starved on scraps, from the food that they ate. Food they had taken from us and others.”

He does not yet turn to Will, making his way back to the fish to bring it to the plate, careful movements, practiced, soothing. Grounding gestures as his eyes focus on a place far away and long ago.

“We were bought and sold, dealer to dealer, held and moved, and slowly,” murmurs Hannibal. “Slowly broken apart. Scattered. I was the only Neuri on the ship to Athens,” he says. “I have not heard the language spoken since the last of us were separated. Until you.”

Will steps closer, enough to rest his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder, but he says nothing else, offers no comfort or useless words, he knows they will be, here. He cannot imagine the fear Hannibal had lived through, the suffering he was put through, and to still remain so fearless, so utterly, entirely alive, it is beyond Will, he cannot fathom it.

He rubs against Hannibal softly before standing to help him set the table, the vegetables and bread and cheese, warmed from being so close to the fire. Oil and fish, and cups for wine. He sits with his legs curled beneath him, watches Hannibal come back to himself as Will feels the tendrils of another’s memory slip from his skin.

He eats only when Hannibal starts to, and shifts, after a while, to set his feet gently against Hannibal’s legs, toes splayed and cool against his knees. A simple contact, a soft one, almost childish, and Will offers a smile when Hannibal looks up again.

“I’m honored to know it,” he tells him, in Neuri, soft and honest. “It is a beautiful language.”

Hannibal studies him, tightness gathering beneath his eyes, and he allows the inward shiver that always pulls at him when he hears those words from another’s tongue - from Will. “Useless now, perhaps,” Hannibal murmurs. “There must be but a handful left who speak it.” He reaches, to brush a hand against Will’s ankle, and bring the boy’s feet into his lap. “But it is beautiful when you do.”

Hand resting against Will’s leg, Hannibal strokes across the top of his foot, and does not let his thoughts return to his sister, to the woods. “Your father took me at auction. Once I spit into the crowd, no one else would. ‘Straight out of the woods’ he said, and he was not wrong. I was unruly and disobedient and cruel and would not speak for months,” he confesses. “But he never struck me down for it. Never beat me, never sold me back to them. He was patient and taught me what he might - to read, a little, to write - before deciding that the army would suit my temperament and my class.”

The memories ease, nearer now, further from the woods that nightly haunt him, from the screams that fill the spaces between the tall straight birches set white against the sky and the fires that consumed them.

“I kept what I could,” Hannibal finally says. “I remembered our words, our symbols. After Marathon I traveled, found no one who had ever heard of the Neuri, but -”

A thought, unexpected, catches Hannibal off-guard, and with his bowl of wine in hand he presses the other to his face with a laugh. It seems so obvious now, as Will looks on, brows lifted. It is so clear.

“- but I found the horses,” Hannibal explains. “Sacred animals, being sold for meat, I bought them all, every one. I had not considered until now, what it means to have found them then.”

Will watches him, this man he had once seen as a savage, a metic, a man who has been through so much violence and anger, who had worked tirelessly in the army, who had remained, throughout, civil and well-learned and clever, who had remained a friend to Will’s father despite their unusual meeting. He watches and he cannot feel anything but awe, genuine, powerful, breathless awe, that he is allowed even a glimpse into his life.

He feels Hannibal gently squeeze against his calf and smiles.

"So that is how you have come to have so many," he guesses, and Hannibal merely gives him a look, a smile, and Will feels his own widening.

"I bought nine," Hannibal says, allowing Will to calculate on his own how many generations he owns at the farm, now, with sixteen animals. It strikes Will, immediately, why he refuses to sell them, now, even when some do little more than graze the fields and enjoy the shade of the scraggly trees, even when one will become lame, then another, Hannibal will not discard them, will not turn his back.

His own kin as anything else in this world remains.

"Tell me what else you have kept," Will asks him, eager and delighted as he reaches to tear a piece of fish, setting it to his plate quickly and blowing on his fingers to soothe the burn of it, feet shifting in Hannibal’s lap as the older man strokes rough fingers over the young skin.

"I kept the marks on my skin," Hannibal considers. "Carved in blood and ash when I had earned them. It gave me a fierce reputation among the other soldiers," observes the general, distant amusement.

"You did it yourself?" Will blinks.

"Most," admits Hannibal, fingers finding one of the raised and colored scars against his skin. "They are far less beautiful than they might have been at the hands of she who carved my first."

He takes a sip of wine, and adds, "Far more important to remember the ritual, the feel of it all. Drums and blood, furs and fire. How it felt to look up and see the trees go on forever until they wore stars as leaves, embers rising to join them." Hannibal lifts his hand, fingers turning as if to mimic the movement, but he finds himself dissatisfied and shakes his head. "And so I marked my own history, with my own fires," he murmurs. "I had thought to someday have a son to teach it to."

His small smile, aching bitterness, says enough about that.

"Eat your fish, peacemaker, or it will grow cold."

Will, obediently, does. It is moist and fresh, the seasoning just enough, the flavor perfect and he immediately reaches for another piece to pull free with his fingers, taking up the bread with his other hand, to eat them together. He does not think of the unfathomable sadness that he feels almost radiate from the man at the words, he thinks, instead, of the note of hope within them.

He had taught Will everything - almost everything - that he would have to a son: his customs and language, his personal history and that of his people. He has also taught Will things a son should never know, and Will feels the better for it, adored and special, and important. He supposes it had never occurred to him how special, to Hannibal, he was. Much more than just a boy, more than, even, an eromenos. Something transcending so many lines all at once.

He thinks of the reverence with which Hannibal speaks of his tattoos, his culture and his people, his Gods and his language. He thinks, with a quickening heart, how lucky he is to know of all of it, and how quickly, by his own stubborn stupidity, he could have lost this so many months ago if he had not made peace.

"Will you teach me?" he asks suddenly. “Of the fires and the embers, drums and blood and fur?" Will takes a piece of cheese, another piece of bread to eat with it as he watches Hannibal, waits.

Hannibal stops himself from dismissing the boy’s request outright - it would not be the same here, without the snow, the birches tall and white, the people around them stirring vibrant and primal into the blackness of night. But there is earnest desire in the question, to not only know but to experience, and as he eats Hannibal recalls how once he felt, younger than Will at the time - alive and whole in the world, joined to it inseparably.

When, if not now.

The wind whistles against the house and Hannibal turns to it, feels the threads of cold it carries into the house as it shakes the shutters. “Yes,” Hannibal tells him. “If you wish it. Tonight, perhaps, while the storm is upon us.”

Will’s eyes widen, in truth he had prepared to argue, had Hannibal denied him. Not cruelly, but persistently, asking to know and citing time as a factor. If not now, then when? If not together, then how? But he feels the warmth with which Hannibal allows this, just as he feels the resignation, the pain beneath. The sadness of leaving this behind with no one, if Will does not understand, does not remember. 

He grins and wriggles lower in his seat, feet squirming in Hannibal’s lap until the motion is soothed, eased, by rough palms and a soft word, and Will bites his lip, feeling, suddenly, entirely, inexplicably, happy.

"Your marks," he says suddenly, "of the creatures you have earned, the beasts you fought and the memories you have... which creature is for her?"

Hannibal’s brows draw in, and he shifts in his seat, though not enough to displace Will’s feet from his lap. The chiton is slipped from his shoulder, chest bared to reveal the animals that coil and twist across it, and he skims a thumb over the smallest of them, a little bird with wings spread across his breast.

“It seemed appropriate,” he murmurs, “for one so small who brought so much joy into the world. Who moved so effortlessly through it, as if it were all made for her alone, and who filled the woods with her song.”

Will leans closer, to see the rough letters carved alongside the bird. He had thought it was the Neuri name for the bird itself, and had never asked, but now he pronounces it softly, watching Hannibal. “Mischa?”

Muscles drawing tight beneath his eyes, Hannibal’s expression suggests a smile that never comes, and he huffs a soft breath before stroking the mark once more, and covering himself again. “It’s been so many years since I’ve heard her name.”

Will swallows, remembers. Thinks of the little girl he had seen and never seen, had held and protected, without knowing her name. He wonders if he is gifted with this ability to see, or cursed with it, a penance for his own insolence as a child, towards this man, towards the concept of fighting being just brutality in war, never for another.

He takes up his cup and holds it above the table for a moment, ducking his head, biting his lip before straightening his shoulders and tilting his eyes in a smile that never comes.

"May you hear it for many years hence, then,” he says, directs his eyes to the wine, closing them briefly as he thanks the Gods and honors them, his own and only those whose names he still only vaguely knows. "Let's drink for Mischa and her wings that you have gifted her, all the things she has seen with them."

He watches that strange expression flit over Hannibal’s face once more, a deep and agonizing sadness, exhaustion, nostalgia, fear... beneath it all hope. Beneath even that, and just as warm, just as powerful, adoration. Love.

"To Mischa,” he agrees, adds another word Will does not know before emptying his cup. Will smiles, bites his lip, and thinks how perhaps the love is not just for a memory. Thinks how perhaps the hope is for himself.

He swallows the wine until there is none left, feeling a peculiar sensation within him that has nothing to do with inebriation, a power within him like a rising storm, like the beating of wings against his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dried branches stacked high, filled with kindling and straw still dry from the barn, Hannibal shields the little flame he starts from the wind with his body, and only as it catches and builds do the words come to him, coaxing it onward, to ask the favor of those unseen who share the land with them. To keep the fire bright. To let the boy feel it fill him.
> 
> To guide them both, as light drives away the dark.

Only when they have finished eating does Hannibal take his leave, asking Will to leave no mess for Asherah while the man goes to prepare. There is an almost tangible energy in the air, with the storm whipping wild towards them, the quiet of the house, anticipation. Hannibal allows it to quicken his pulse, an eager thrum, humming low as he goes to his room to pull out the dust-thick trunk left too long untouched. Careful fingers brush across fur and blade, over small clay pots. All gathered carefully against his chest, he leaves the house with the instruction for Will to bring wine, unmixed with water, when he sees the fire.

Towards the trees, Hannibal goes, though they are gnarled and curved things and not the rigid straight forest he remembers still so well. He finds a place upon a hill, far enough from the animals, from the house, overlooking sea and trees, field and in the far distance mountains, illuminated by the moon in flashes as clouds roil across the sky. He lays out his things, and he gathers wood. Dried branches stacked high, filled with kindling and straw still dry from the barn, Hannibal shields the little flame he starts from the wind with his body, and only as it catches and builds do the words come to him, coaxing it onward, to ask the favor of those unseen who share the land with them. To keep the fire bright. To let the boy feel it fill him.

To guide them both, as light drives away the dark.

Stepping back, Hannibal warms his hands against the building flame, snapping bright sparks in the gusts of wind, and begins to remove his robes. Thick wool and soft linen cast aside, until the man is bare. He wonders if he felt so exposed before, or if it is a symptom of civilization that would look on him now more than any other moment as foreign and strange.

He stands, as the fire roars before him, fighting the wind as it tries to smother it and instead only strengthens it, raises his arms and lifts his head. He does not hear Will come up the hill, the wind and fire battling before him, pulling his hair and warming his skin. He seeks him only as a flicker at the corner of his eye, little, in his robes, dwarfed by the fire, by the trees, hair pulled loose from its tiny tail to whip around his face.

Will sets the wine down, undiluted, in a heavy stone pitcher, and just watches, awed, as Hannibal speaks to the flames, welcomes them, faces them entirely fearless. He can feel the power of it, the power of the storm above them, the fire before them, the ground beneath. He can feel the energy of the man himself, his tattoos stark in the firelight, darker, almost alive the way the shadows move.

Little fingers come up to work his own belt free, to slide the smooth white fabric from his body and leave him just as bare, but pale, unmarked, no stories yet on his skin, earned, no stories yet told, through bruises and scars and roughness of skin. He lets out a breath, small and nervous, and steps closer to the fire, hands out to warm against it, laughing when the flames seem to turn to him to lick his palms and never once burn him.

Turning towards the boy, Hannibal skims a hand across his hair, his other squeezing a skinny hip as Will’s hands curl small and warm against his chest. He parts Will’s lips with his tongue, a fierce and affectionate kiss, fire flickering hot inside him already, and he tugs Will’s hair softly as they part.

“It’s a favorable night for this,” Hannibal tells him, another kiss against his brow, tilting their heads together for a moment more. “Perkunas comes, there,” he says, glancing towards the storm that splits lightning across the sky above the sea, “to keep the serpents at bay. So we will welcome him, and ask his favor.”

Will nods, watching still as another snap of light crosses through the clouds, and Hannibal strokes a hand down his cheek before moving to the wine. An offering of it made, half poured into the fire, and half of the remaining consumed by the man himself, the remainder offered to Will.

Will drinks, enough that he feels his throat burn, enough that his stomach warms with it as though he is drinking the fire itself, enough that thin lines drip from the corners of his mouth and down his pale throat before he sets the empty pitcher down and catches his breath, eyes wide towards the storm, on Hannibal as the man bends before the fire, stokes it. 

And he is sure, now, that the tattoos are moving, that every creature has come alive before the fire to welcome the storm, to spread their wings or swing their tails, bend their heads to present their horns and Will’s eyes widen further, breath hitching as he spreads his arms for the wind to feel it almost lift him.

The wine burns through him and he feels entirely fearless, he feels entirely alive. He does not feel the cold, the roughness of the earth beneath his bare feet. He laughs, just once, a pleased and youthful sound, and bends to help Hannibal with the wood.

“Sit,” Hannibal tells him, his own tongue now, only. Will drops back to the ground beside the bundle that Hannibal brought out with him. He touches the soft fur, shivers at the feel of it, and Hannibal kneels beside him, eyes nearly red in the firelight. He takes up the clay pot, unrefined and uneven compared to the fine things that Will has always seen in Greece.

In it, Hannibal pours the dregs of the wine and his own spit, licked from his lip in thought as he holds the pot near the fire, rolling it to warm, to liquify. “Red ink - dye,” he explains, as a crack of thunder turns his attention skyward, and a smile curves his lips. He feels young again, struck by the wonder of the world around them, hot with wine and itching with the sensation that his skin does not fit him properly, that he would shed it and move freely without. Shifting to sit between Will’s legs, Hannibal takes up the knife and with the barest movement of his brows, skims it just along the side of his hand. His blood looks black but for where the light catches it, and he drips it into the pot until it begins to slow. Mouth on his hand, he sucks the wound and reaches two fingers into the pot, to mix the dye.

Will’s lips part in utter wonder, no fear, now, for blood being spilled before him so readily, so easily, no fear that it is _for_ him. He watches Hannibal’s fingers sink into the dye, thick and warm from the fire before them and the one within Hannibal, he feels his heart hammer faster, digs his fingers into the dirt between his thighs, gouging little trenches in anticipation as he lifts his eyes to Hannibal’s again.

“To dedicate you,” Hannibal tells him, the rough words somehow soft from his tongue. “To protect you.” As gently as he has always touched the boy, brows knit to remember the marks that he once wore in kind, Hannibal traces the bright scarlet paint against his pale skin - signs for safety and for luck, for bravery and those that Will does not know - and sings, softly, strangely in a low voice, hardly there in the wind and fire around them, but enough to send a shiver through his skin.

Will closes his eyes, feels the blood and wine against him, slip over his skin, mark him and sear against him so he cannot forget the sigils if he tried, though he does not know what they mean. He thinks of Hannibal once telling him, how a symbol could be drawn on a person, on a book, to represent wisdom and power, knowledge and endurance. He wonders what these mean, wonders what side of the blade he will feel for his protection, or safety or strength.

He makes a sound, a little whine, and blinks his eyes open, watching Hannibal sway slowly as he continues to paint the boy before him, the sounds from his lips seem to almost come on their own, lips barely moving, or moving out of time. Will blinks. Again. Feels his breathing hitch as his heart beats faster. Whatever this power is, from the storm, from the earth, from the fire and the blood, he has never felt anything like it.

He reaches out, to see if he is permitted to draw as well, if he need only give his blood for Hannibal to draw the sigils that are important on himself. Anything.

Hannibal sets the pot of dye aside and brings Will’s hand against his face, pressing kisses to his palm, to his wrist, higher still to taste Will’s wine-red lips beneath his own. “To keep you safe,” he tells him, fingers splayed against the mark on his chest. “To bring you luck and make you brave.” A pause, and his smile widens against Will’s mouth, heart-felt and genuine. “Braver than you already are.”

He holds Will’s hand in his own a moment more, taking up the blade from atop the pelts and curves it so slightly against Will’s skin - a place that will heal quickly, not bend or interfere with his movements - just enough to earn a drop of blood and join it in the pot with his own. He kisses the cut, holds his mouth against it to taste Will there, to heal and stop the flow of it, and then presses the jar of ink to Will’s hand. Slowly, Hannibal sits back against the ground himself, bare and windswept, for the boy to paint him with his own solicitations of the gods who move the world around them, dizzying and wild.

Will’s fingers find the ink too warm, hot almost, surely not how it had come from his hand, from Hannibal’s, surely this is something stronger, wilder, older than they are, pushing through them as a conduit, a messenger, something else entirely. He draws the sigils he remembers, he draws strength and bravery, he draws wisdom. He ducks his head to look at the ones painted on him to copy them, careful fingers, tracing over Hannibal’s tattoos and scars.

He does not know what is expected, what is proper, what is needed, but he finds his fingers curling inwards against his palm, smearing the dye there before he presses his hand to Hannibal’s chest, over his heart, up, smudged against his neck, fingertips drawing straight lines down Hannibal’s arms like claw marks, over his knuckles and to his fingernails just to feel him respond.

Will sets the bowl aside and pushes up on his knees to kiss Hannibal again, lips hungry and seeking, feeling the blood against him throb as the blood within him does. He cannot explain it, cannot put name or meaning to this power within him, coursing through them both. Above, the thunder booms loud enough to shake the earth and Will laughs, lips wet against Hannibal’s own, he laughs loudly and lifts his head to the sky, welcoming the flash of light that follows, out of time, too close too far, it doesn’t matter. Will feels like he could fly.

Catching himself against the ground, hands buried in the soft earth, Hannibal leans back beneath the force of the boy who clambers beautiful and graceless against him. It sings through them both now, the voices that Hannibal once heard long ago - that Will can only imagine but feel in every rush of wind and crackle of flame. Beyond erastes and eromenos now, beyond teacher and apprentice, their mouths join damp and eager and alive with each other.

Hannibal pulls the ink close again, wetting his fingers in it, and brings them to Will’s cheek. Stripes are painted from his eyes to his jaw, across his nose, smeared dark over his eyes that close as Hannibal’s thumb passes over them. When they open again, the sight steals Hannibal’s breath as readily as the twist of light through the sky, illuminating the boy in white and red and blue eyes nearly black with pupil.

“You will be fearsome,” Hannibal tells him, voice low where the smoke has roughened it, where wine has burned. “Wonderful and terrible, all at once.”

He reaches, upsetting the knife to the ground, and brings the wolf hide across Will’s shoulders. Eyes narrowing in anticipation - in pleasure - Hannibal draws a deep breath when Will’s fingers curl like claws against his chest, and he settles the head of the pelt across Will’s wild hair, and sighs. “Beautiful.”

Another laugh, just as youthful but deeper, now, pulled from the depths where Will’s pleasure lives, his anger, his instinct, pulled and pulled until his lips split to show his teeth in a wide grin and he scrambles back from Hannibal to watch the man pull the remaining pelt against himself, both clothed, now, in the skin that is theirs.

Will doesn’t know what this means, can explain nothing beyond the fact that the storm is closer, that the fire is higher and hotter, he can feel it searing his skin and yet he does not burn when it touches him in flicks of the tongues of flame. He knows only that his blood sings, pulls him to the trees behind and around him, pulls him to run and bite and snarl, to become the thing he wears, he knows that he is everything Hannibal says, that he will be even more, ever more.

Will rises on his knees, head back and arms spread, and draws a breath enough to push against his ribs, sear there as well, hurt, press… and lets out a howl that is echoed back in the thunder of the sky.

His voice is joined in kind by Hannibal, a savage howling cry until the thunder fades and Hannibal’s howl breaks on a rough laugh. In abandon, in absolute freedom, they give their wine and skin, voices and blood to gods that - by whatever name their peoples know them - are old as the world itself. Storm and wind and fire, their own fierce strength, joined together beneath the tumultuous sky that rewards them with another clatter of sound.

Hannibal will tell him later, of the gods that he knows, Perkunas with his lightning and the goat-pulled cart that makes the thunder, of Velnias his rival and creator of chaos, of the countless others with and without names, large and small. He will tell him later why they give their best goat as thanks, her blood hot across the ground, when the night is through. He will tell him everything he has ever known.

Later, later, when they are still and sober, not drunk on the moment, on each other as they run and chase around the fire, driven on by drums that have beat in the hearts of man and animal alike for as long as they have existed. Hannibal calls out, in his language, words that Will does not yet know, and Will echoes, howls and yells when he cannot repeat the chant. They move in a dance that has no steps, that needs none, they move together. 

Arms seek through the fire, too fast to burn, feet dig to the dirt before they spin away and flatten the grass beneath them. Will feels himself no longer himself, his voice supported by instruments he can hear but cannot see, hands clasped by those of ghosts long since past this dance. Will spins and turns, growls and grins, and snarls his teeth at the older man who gives chase.

Hannibal skids to the ground, just missing the boy as he grabs for him and Will snaps his teeth in response. Feet and hands planted, pelt draped across his body, when Will looks back to him he sees not a man but a wolf, in the instant before Hannibal shoves from the earth to pursue again, teeth bared in a savage grin.

Will feels like he could run to the sky itself, roll in the stars and feel them on his pelt, pant in the midst of them and camouflage enough that only his eyes would be visible, twinkling as the stars are as he watched his prey. It is intoxicating, both dancing to a beat only they can hear, twists and snarls and quick feet, arms through the flames too quick to burn, too quick to hurt. Will feels invincible.

He avoids another grab, turns mid-stride and drops to all fours, eyes narrowed and rimmed in red, drips of it warm still down his cheeks as he bares his teeth in a grin, watches Hannibal approach him slowly, still on two legs, regal, but no longer human, whatever part had ever thought Hannibal human has vanished; they are creatures, both, beasts to rend and tear, punish and defend.

A growl rises, slow in his throat, nothing compared to the sounds Hannibal makes when he merely thinks to, nothing compared to the bone-deep terror that strikes anyone hearing a wolf make it in the wild, but it is entirely his own, entirely his call, as the howl had been, and in the flash of lightning that strikes the sky moments later, the thunder that follows at its heels, in pursuit, he watches Hannibal move, his speed inhuman, and knows that as the sound and electricity had caught up together, so have they. In tangled limbs and slippery fingers, Will bares his teeth and thrashes, biting a kiss against Hannibal’s lips when he’s close enough.

Nails digging deep in Will’s thighs, Hannibal snarls into the kiss, and jerks away from it with a harsh pull against the boy’s legs. Both fall heavy to the ground, panting breathless against each other’s mouths before Hannibal brings them smothering together again, nothing but their paint and skin between them. He shoves himself hard against Will’s spread legs, a rough rut that distracts him from Will’s heels planting in the ground to drive himself suddenly backwards with another little growl, teeth bared.

He turns to run but stumbles when Hannibal catches him by the ankle and yanks him back. Across Will’s shoulder their eyes meet, and across his fur Hannibal’s hands skim, along his back, before he presses his body above him and mounts the boy, snaring him by the waist. His words are too quick now, hardly spoken but rather growled, lips curled across his teeth as he arches his back to drive himself between Will’s thighs, thick and heavy and hard.

Will makes another sound, another animal noise of displeasure though he arches hard, pushes back against every rough thrust of the man behind him, claiming him entirely as Will scrabbles at the damp earth and tries to dig his way free, merely to feel Hannibal press him down harder, hold him steady, lean to press his teeth against the pelt just behind Will’s neck and Will moans, loud and long, and the sky booms its pleasure above him.

He can feel the blood and spit, sweat slick against his skin as he’s taken, reclaimed, and allows it, bending and arching and twisting beneath the man heavy above him, pressing his thighs tighter together to hear Hannibal growl again, words Will cannot make out, words he doesn’t need to, he knows what they mean.

Harder and harder, the rhythm unrelenting until Will coils a hand between his legs and strokes himself, pushing closer and closer to completion, closer as the storm grows wild above them, ozone fills the air as the fire retaliates and spits against the sky. Closer as Hannibal growls his name against Will’s hair, damp with sweat and blood and mud. Closer until he cries out, helpless and needy, a growl scratching his throat at the end as he presses his forehead to the ground and bites his lip and feels his own release slick his thighs, feels Hannibal’s heat him further and drip to the ground they kneel on.

Will pants, quick heavy things as he never has before, his entire body alive, awake, with power and adrenaline and animal urge to tear and rend and run. He bares his teeth again, closes his eyes and rests his chest against the ground, shaking as his fingers pull grass from the earth and twist it into his fist. Hips still up, still held, thighs still tight around Hannibal who grows softer, pulls back and presses a possessive bite to the flushed skin of one damp cheek.

It has been hours, certainly, passed in flashes of light and brushes of skin, though it might as well have been days, months, lifetimes shared as wolves, free of the worries that plague man and with no more concern than to eat and drink and hunt and mate. Though he does not know himself again yet, Hannibal feels a trembling weakness come over his body, resonant in the boy beneath him now who can hardly move from ecstatic exhaustion. Dragging the pelt from his shoulders, Hannibal lays it against the ground behind him, and with a gentleness still strangely fitting for their transformation, Hannibal moves the boy with him to lay back across it.

Warmed by the fire at their front, Hannibal loosens the hide from Will’s shoulders and pulls it over them both. Pressed tight to Will’s back, arms secured around him, he presses his nose to the back of Will’s neck and breathes him in, with slow unsteady sighs.

Will stretches, a soft groan escaping him as his toes point and relax, thighs sticky and filthy and he doesn’t care at all, seeking back with one muddy hand to grasp Hannibal’s and bring it forward to press against his middle, his own on top, smearing mud where he had drawn lines of red.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he can feel the thunder in the earth, the beat of its heart there, against his own, the beat of Hannibal’s against his back. He knows his mind turns blank when they all sync up.

Will wakes to the feeling of cool water against his parted lips, wetting the skin there and trickling to his mouth so Will is forced to swallow. The fire has soothed down to embers, still radiating heat but no longer stretching for the sky, no longer caressing two invincible men to temper them against the world.

Another stretch, slow, and Will pushes back further against the heat of Hannibal behind him. The water continues to fall, heavy thick drops against Will’s eyes and into his ears, until he curls further into the fur and imagines the world turns silent again.

Tucking his face against the back of Will’s neck, Hannibal rumbles a deep displeasure at the sudden sensation. He has no more time than to echo the thunder in his complaining sound before the sky opens.

The downpour is torrential, extinguishing the fire in an instant and soaking them both through the pelts, with a start. Hannibal sputters, blinking awake entirely, and spitting water, he pushes to stand. The knife, the pot, their clothes and the pitcher are for now forgotten, as Hannibal ducks to pick up boy and furs alike and heft the bundle against his chest. The sky is bruised black, lit only by the promise of dawn, and Hannibal turns his face to it for a moment more, murmuring a word of thanks, before he breaks for the house.

The ground is slick, though, with mud and long grass pounded flat by the rain, and Hannibal skids as he slides down the hill where they had made their ritual. He manages not to drop Will outright, a quick little foot dropping to catch himself as Hannibal slips to the ground, Will beside him, with a hand planted against the earth and a curse on his lips, laughing.

Will wriggles in the furs, matted, now, and dirty, before pushing himself to stand, bending to take the furs up to press to his chest, shaking in the cold rain against his filthy skin. And he is so, blood and wine smearing down his chest, mud down his side and back, worse still between his legs. 

He laughs, eyes bright and still barely awake as the sky opens more above them, the storm that had been threatening now upon them, the good fortune that comes with water, good crops, healthy animals, falling on them now in heavy freezing sheets, and Will bites his lip watching Hannibal get himself off the ground, just as messy, just as wild, and so beautiful Will’s chest squeezes all air from his lungs, pulls him entirely breathless.

He manages one step before Hannibal ducks his head to catch him, should he fall, and Will kisses him, mouth open and free hand around the back of his head, holding him close.

Hannibal takes Will’s face in both hands, pushes his hair back from where it’s stuck against his face, and steps into him. Bare bodies pressed slick together, the rain washing away the scarlet with which they marked themselves, as if in acceptance of their requests. They kiss, again and again, mouths meeting only to pull away only to rejoin once more, to taste the ash from the other’s tongue, the remnants of wine long finished.

There is nothing he could give to the boy that has given him so much with this. Allowing Hannibal to relive an experience he thought long passed, fanning the flames of his own nearly-forgotten faith inside of him, making him alive in a way he never thought he would be again. Nothing in the world could repay it, but the man himself, and he does not need to speak his devotion, knowing it is felt entirely.

Together they stand, until the earth is stained red beneath them, and finally Hannibal catches Will’s hand in his to bring it to his lips, before tugging him towards the house.

They run, though there is no need to do so considering how soaked they are, and Will holds the heavy wet furs tight against his chest. Asherah - closing the barn door behind the last of the goats - regards them with an arched brow as they stumble, laughing, against the door of the house. Hannibal snares Will around the thighs and lifts him. He shoves the door open with his thigh and he carries his boy inside, relishing the kisses that fall against his face softer than the rain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes up the envelope and opens it without fanfare, to see that the other generals are in agreement and that the polemarch has authorized their preparations. The parchment is not rolled but folded, and on it hastily written letters that from their speed and shape alone send Hannibal’s heart hammering.
> 
> Until he reads them.
> 
> Reads them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of _Engysis_ , but only part two of the ongoing [Aionios](http://archiveofourown.org/series/178289) series - check back next Sunday for the beginning of year three, _Epaulia_! And of course, thank you all for reading, commenting, sharing, and being so utterly amazing - we could not do this without you!

The storm lasts three days, relentless and angry, tossing the ocean and beating the trees, but the farm remains unharmed. The barn keeps the largest of the animals safe from the weather, though the straw gets damp quickly and the slaves and Will work hard to change it before the animals grow uncomfortable or rot can set in.

Will’s dogs grow restless, pacing the house and pawing at the doors, though Will only lets them out to not soil the house, spends the rest of the day trying to catch them all to dry them off before they shake. Yelp becomes a permanent fixture on Hannibal’s bed, even with Will in it as well, the three of them barely fitting on the mattress yet no one willing to move and sacrifice the comfort of the warmth between them.

Will thinks of the fire, sees it behind his eyes as he closes them, hears its roar, reaches out to touch it only to find it entirely cool against his fingertips, as it had been that night.

He and Hannibal had not spoken of the ritual, though neither feel the need to. They had returned inside and bathed, a quick warm rinse in the largest tub before returning to bed, the slaves and Asherah given instructions to secure the animals and take the day as they pleased - all outdoor chores would be impossible, and no animals needed to be groomed until evening. Will remembers falling asleep then, little fingers curled in the warm hair on Hannibal’s chest as he lay against it, heavy arms over him and a blanket over that. They had slept for hours.

Now, he watches the water run rivers down the paths and flatten the grass in the field where the horses would usually roam. Upon the windowsill, stand four little creatures, lopsided and rudimentary, but slowly a growing herd of horses, each different from the last, with swirling patterns of words where the ink had soaked through the paper, or where Will had used the written side deliberately for pattern.

He watches the rain and taps a finger softly against the head of the smallest figure before curling his arms beneath himself and resting his head in them. Hannibal is in the kitchen, directing the slaves in preparing the meal for dinner, considers how to ration more food if the flooding continues one more day, and if they will have to feed the dogs from their own stores again. Once he is finished, he will return and he and Will will go over more histories, tactical formations from different cultures, examine past battles and work through the weaknesses of enemy armies.

The concerns that had weighed heavy on them before their welcoming the storm return over the days that pass. Though neither address it directly, Will frequently mentions the strengths of the Attic armies, those of her sister city-states, and Hannibal is preoccupied with the scope and span of the Persian empire. It is clear, though never mentioned, that his thoughts return again and again to potential angles to which that vast army may be moving, whether across the sea to Athens directly, or circling from the north to route Thebes first and press downward.

“A benefit to that,” Hannibal murmurs, “in not being caught between Thessaly and Laconia. A danger in facing Sparta last with exhausted armies.”

“And if they press directly?” Will asks, no longer stationed at a desk but perched on Hannibal’s lap, hands holding down the map sketched before them.

“Then they have taken Athens, and we are in the dependency of the others as to whether they engage.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Blinking wide, Will seems startled by the thought of such an overt betrayal, and Hannibal soothes a hand against his back.

“Self-preservation,” he responds. “Though a foolishness on their part to think that Persia would not press next north, to Boetia. Sparta will remain untouched until the empire is well-established in the peninsula, and then likely strike a deal with Darius.”

It is more information that he should give, diverted now entirely from whatever lesson was being taught before, but Hannibal can think of little else, and the company in sharing his thoughts aloud is welcome. He spreads his hands across the map and Will removes his own, to loop them back around Hannibal’s neck. “None of your scenarios consider Athens victorious,” Will observes gently, brows drawn.

To this, Hannibal says nothing, and instead distracts himself with the curve of Will’s neck, where he rests his mouth to kiss softly in place of whatever pale consolation he could offer the boy, who could not fathom the scope - the hundreds of thousands - in the army that is facing them. Will’s tension doesn’t wane, even beneath the gentle touches, and both startle suddenly enough to send Will to his feet when the front door bangs shut and there is a call for the general.

He rises, drawing up tall and letting the map furl in on itself again, smoothing his chiton before making his way to the slave sent to the polis days before, who stands now dripping in the entry.

“I had thought you drowned,” Hannibal observes, a play at teasing that falls flat when the slave offers to him a pouch of oiled leather.

“They kept me,” he explains. “Awaiting news to bring to you, I think, though they blamed it on the storm.”

Hannibal takes the pouch with both hands, thumbing across the smooth surface. “And my horse?”

“Just as sure as you promised.”

This, at least, draws a soft smile from Hannibal, suddenly far older in the moments that have passed, lines carved deeper in his face. He grips the parcel and takes it with him, turning back into the house. He does not open it, knows well enough what it contains, and sets it aside to find strength in his shoulders again, to straighten his back.

Asherah sees the dripping man to the baths, another slave setting to heat the water as she prepares him a meal and wine after his journey, something Hannibal always offers, guests, slaves, perhaps enemies too if they had come to speak in peace. A practice he has never once wavered in, the offering of food and rest and warmth for work well done, and in such a storm. 

Will watches from the door, eyes glassy and arms crossed as she works, though when she looks up, a smile on her face that he does not return, her features morph to concern, and Will shakes his head gently and turns away.

He does not follow Hannibal and goes, instead, to his own chambers, wades through the ocean of dogs that wag their tails almost in unison against his floor. He settles amongst them, hands out for them to sniff and lick, smiling despite the tension, the worry, as the warm bodies rearrange like a single living thing to shift against him where he is, heavy heads against his lap, warm backs behind him to lean against.

They are so large, now, the dogs. Heads reaching to the horse’s shoulders when they stand, all shaggy beasts with long tails and lolling tongues, all vicious until they are approached, everyone finding themselves entirely charmed by giant creatures. Will thinks absently how he will beg Hannibal to take a dog with him when he goes. Perhaps Swift, for his ruthlessness, Riot for her skill. Snow for his endurance. The thought of giving up a pup - always pups to him, despite their size - as well as farewelling Hannibal brings up bile in Will’s chest, burning and bitter, and he forces the thought away.

He stands and extricates himself from the creatures only when Asherah calls him to dinner, two of the dogs immediately standing to follow before she points them back to the bedroom and they go, obedient, whining their displeasure. They will end up in the kitchen regardless, Will knows, Tawny and Riot, her favorites, at least. Regardless, he goes without an escort now, finds Hannibal at the table already, and settles across from him, watching for any sign that there is news.

His expression has not changed, no more concern in his features and no less, and no change in how he palms a piece of meat to Yelp - having slipped past Asherah's observation - when he thinks Will distracted with pouring wine for them. Eventually his attention lifts from the meal, watching Will watching him, and only then does Hannibal feel true unhappiness, in seeing the boy’s scarcely concealed look of dismay. It is a cruel thing to see on him, entirely unfair, and something like regret settles cold as the rain outside, inside of him.

Regret for what is coming.

Regret for how he has allowed them both to grow so close.

Regret for even taking the boy from the comfort of his life in Athens, perhaps, where he might never have known this dread anticipation, and continued simply being a spoiled boy who goes to the baths and has little more worry than that.

Hannibal tears off another strip of hare-meat off his own plate to feed to Yelp, eyes averting from the bright blue ones that watch him in question. “I have not read it yet,” Hannibal tells him. “I wish to enjoy our dinner without it.” There is tightness in his throat, despite, and he swallows past it before straightening, to take a handful of olives from the bowl. “You may return to your father when I am called.”

Will’s jaw works but he says nothing, the muscles beneath his eyes narrowing in clear displeasure before he takes an olive himself, some cheese, sullenly chews those before taking up more meat as Hannibal watches.

“May I stay here?” he asks at length, eyes still to the table, away from Hannibal, but words clear, directed at him as Will straightens his shoulders and reaches for more bread. “I would rather stay here. Practice with the weapons you have taught me, keep the horses. I need to train mine with the blanket, still, before she can take a saddle, before she can take me.”

He stops before he can continue, that he does not want to leave here and be made to forget, not by his father, who would encourage he remember, but his mind that would return to the cool clean walls of his childhood home, no longer be woken by the cock’s crow every morning.

“Are you so certain you will not return here?”

“It isn’t my place to know.”

“It seems as if you do, though,” Will tells him, and at this Hannibal raises his eyes again. No anger narrows them, no hardening of his features at the boy’s knowing insolence.

“It is unlikely,” he responds simply. “And so I must leave my business in order. You may take your horse, and one of my own, to return. Whatever dogs you can manage. When I go, you will return to the polis where it is safe. I will not leave you here -” A bare movement catches Hannibal’s expression, darkens it, as he speaks those words. “I will not leave you here to tend an empty home, not yet a man and with much more life to lead within the walls of the city.”

Will remains silent, his displeasure evident in his posture, the way he carries himself and slows eating, in an attempt to keep his anger at bay. For a long while they don’t speak, Will thinks of how it had genuinely not crossed his mind, for many months, that he would have to inevitably return home, inevitably get a wife, marry, have a family when he is considered a man.

He does not think of how Hannibal had paused before continuing his sentence, the words telling, the meaning behind them clear enough. If he will not leave Will, Will shall not let him. He will follow him on another horse through storm and season, if he has to. He bites another piece of meat and sits back to savor it, forcing himself to taste it until Hannibal’s expression clears and Will lifts his eyes to him again.

“Will you not take me with you?” he asks gently, and there is no petulance there, just a genuine longing, the fear he hates showing.

The aim is true and the blow strikes, hard enough that Hannibal turns his attention to his wine. It hardly touches his tongue before it’s gone in a rough swallow, replaced by food that would fill the space of words - _yes, come with me, yes, I want nothing more, yes, I need you_. It is foolishness, however earnest the intent, to consider bringing a boy - even one so promising - to the battlefield.

Though, Hannibal recalls in a quieter voice, beyond those stirred to near-desperation by the boy’s words, he himself was sent to soldiering at a younger age than Will, and only by the luck of peacetime was not fodder on the field.

“I will not see you die before you have had a chance to live,” Hannibal tells him, the words bitter enough on his tongue that he can hardly finish the food upon it. Will draws a breath to protest and Hannibal lifts a hand that stops it. “Enough,” he says, voice firming. “There are few enough meals left between us to be enjoyed, and I will have it so.”

Will’s swallow comes thick to his ears and he sits, very still, for just a moment more, before standing from the table and taking his leave. It is as he had left Hannibal when he had first been called to the polis, unable to keep his temper steady to speak calmly, unable to convince himself that he can hold his shoulders straight and his head high and accept this like a man would. Perhaps he cannot yet go to war, until he can do that.

He returns, presently, with what the slave had delivered, holding it in small hands before setting it to the table and taking his plate in its stead, going towards the kitchen to set it away. 

Few enough meals that he cannot eat his own, right now, until Hannibal could tell him when he was leaving and how long for. Will does not linger in the kitchen more than he needs to, and makes his way through the slave corridors back to the main part of the house, and to Hannibal’s chambers, where Yelp had loped when Will left the first time, settled, now, in the bed, tail wagging and wheezing in joy to see Will come to him.

Will settles against the wall and pulls the heavy pup into his lap, fingers stroking absently against the rough fur, against the warm belly, over and over as he waits.

Hannibal does not look to the parcel but rather to the empty seat beside it. The guilt is suffocating, smothered by the very air he breathes, but there is no other way. He has jaded the boy enough to burden him with worries that are not his concern, made him fearful of the life he should be eager to live.

Away from Hannibal.

Away from this.

But if his task was to turn the boy into a man, then this will temper him - teach him that the world is unforgiving. It is unkind. What exists in one moment may not in the next and that is the way of things. Summer does not last and it is foolishness to not prepare for winter.

It does little to ease the tension - once so far behind them - that settles like fog across the house, and less to assuage how empty the room feels without Will beside him, feet pressed against his legs.

He takes up the envelope and opens it without fanfare, to see that the other generals are in agreement and that the polemarch has authorized their preparations. The parchment is not rolled but folded, and on it hastily written letters that from their speed and shape alone send Hannibal’s heart hammering.

Until he reads them.

Reads them again.

A third time, shaking his head, speaking them softly aloud to himself and standing so suddenly that the chair nearly falls to the floor, caught by a quick hand. His tongue presses between his lips and with both hands now braced against the table, Hannibal prays to every god whose name he has ever known.

The knock comes softly against the bedroom door, though it is open and his own. Hannibal clutches the parchment tight in his hand.

“Will.”

“If you are to leave tonight I will keep you by force,” Will whispers harshly, turning bright eyes to him, hands stilling in the petting of his puppy, whose tail wags seeing Hannibal, ignorant to the war, to anything at all but the warmth and comfort of this home. “You’ll stay one more night, please stay one more.”

Hannibal can’t - won’t - stop himself from a breath of laughter that catches him. In an instant, Will coils, furious and hurt, eyes shining as he turns them away and steels his jaw and Hannibal steps towards him.

“I will not leave tonight,” he tells him. “I will not leave tomorrow night.” Will turns to him again, confused for a moment, and angry - at his own tears, at the laughter, at the war itself. Hannibal lifts the letter, near enough now that Yelp licks his hand as he passes. “There has been a revolt in Egypt.”

Without warning, as Yelp wheezes in playful alarm, Hannibal reaches for Will and drags him from the bed, hoisting the squirming, angry boy against him and burying his head against Will’s shoulder, eyes closed.

“They are marching south to stop the uprising in their colony,” he murmurs against Will’s chest, where his heart beats so fast. “Persia moves, but not for us.”

For a moment, Will is utterly still, still rigid in his anger, before he thrashes, hard enough for Hannibal to have to tighten his grip to hold him close. Will struggles, his relief manifesting in anger, before he works his arms free and wraps them around Hannibal’s neck tight, hands clasping his elbows, and trembles.

It had passed them by, a chance never to happen again, and Will could weep for it, sobs, but his cheeks remain dry as he holds on and hears Hannibal soothe him in gentle Neuri, hands in his hair and down his back, just rubbing until the trembling subsides.

"May their gods be with them but I have never heard better news," Will admits against him.

Huffing a laugh, Hannibal kisses him soundly, clutching the boy against him. Every stretch of skin touched by his fingers, every part of him close enough to kiss caught beneath the older man’s mouth. 

“May they fight well, and see their lands as their own again,” Hannibal murmurs in agreement, but his thoughts are not with Egypt now except in gratitude. He holds Will by the waist as he turns, not only to sit on the bed but to drop heavy onto his back, Yelp resettling alongside, and Will on top of him.

Time returned to them that had been taken, months more than they were meant to have. Though Hannibal does not allow himself the assuredness of thinking the threat eradicated, he is left dizzy with the thought of how far away it now seems, when before it dwelt upon their doorstep. He spreads his fingers and rubs Will’s back, up into the long curls of hair that he winds around his fingers, turning his mouth to settle against Will’s brow when he rests his head against Hannibal’s chest.

“I am sorry,” Hannibal manages. “For speaking harshly. For hurting you.”

Will merely hums, a gentle sound that means absolutely nothing at all and settles, listening to Hannibal’s heart beating, listening to his own slow to match it.

“You spoke only truths,” he sighs, nuzzling Hannibal and shifting closer still, relief cold within him where anger had settled just moments before. “My mind turned them to cruelties.”

He doesn’t say more, contented to curl with Hannibal and rest as they are, enjoying the time, the moments granted them with such a revolt, such a well-timed respite for Greece. He wonders if they had been heard, their howls and tribute to the storm, if it had redirected itself, if Poseidon had rendered the seas vicious, impossible to sail, because they had asked and let the elements consume them.

Hannibal shakes his head, after a moment of thought, turning his eyes down to Will. “Your mind is a wonder,” Hannibal tells him, words pressed soft against his hair. There is so much he wants to tell him, so much that might have spilled from his lips in anger or fear had the letter come as Hannibal expected it, but he does not burden the boy with his devotions now, allows him simply to breathe.

And to have that space, that time, to pace their words and breath and pulse -

A sudden shudder shakes Hannibal softly beneath Will’s weight. He holds the boy near and turns them both to their sides, facing, before ducking his head under Will’s chin, to feel how his breath spreads against warm skin. Shivering beneath the slender hands that curve through his hair, he presses as tightly to his boy as he can. Another night, two, more, all, as many as they can barter from the gods, as Hannibal clutches him close, and goes still with the sensation of death departing from his doorstep.

**Author's Note:**

> Engysis - giving of a pledge into the hand (betrothal)
> 
> \---
> 
> It was considered that the relationship between an erastes and an eromenos was based on only one kind of love, _eros_ , meaning lust. However, it was not unheard of for that lust to develop into another kind of love, called _philos_ , a dear and intimate love for a friend. I suppose it's fair to say our boys have far surpassed _eros_ alone.


End file.
